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[goblinontour]

Valentines

pink and light, just like the taste of your mouth

series masterlist | part 1

warnings: soft!dom!alex, angst, fluff, smut, oral (m receiving), fingering (f receiving), 69ing, he’s turning into a softie 

word count: 10k

London, 2022

Alex woke up alone. The sheets beside him were cold, and the imprint of your body was already faded. His mind swirled, struggling to piece together the night before. Except he didn’t have to. The marks on his back, the lingering sting in his skin, and the dull ache in his chest were proof enough. It wasn’t a dream. You had been there. But now, you weren’t.

He sat up, rubbing his face, the harsh light from the morning sun flooding the room, burning his tired eyes. A heavy sigh escaped him as he stared at the empty space beside him. You had no obligation to stay, of course. There were no promises, no words exchanged to bind you to his side. But still, he always expected you to stay. He thought there was an unspoken understanding, a silent agreement between the two of you, that when night turned to day, you would still be there. Perhaps, though, it was a one-sided expectation. Something he silently agreed to while you remained unaware. Or maybe he was the unaware one.

The room felt emptier than it should, and the silence was deafening. A part of him wanted to reach out, call you, ask why you’d left without a word. But he knew better. This wasn’t the first time, and yet, every time you left, it hurt him a little more.

He leaned back against the headboard, the memories of the night before playing on repeat in his mind. Your voice, the way you touched him like you knew every inch of him, the way you made him feel alive. And now, the sharp contrast of waking up alone gnawed at him. He wasn’t sure when he’d started feeling this way, when he’d started craving more than just the nights with you. But here he was, sitting in his empty bed, wishing you’d stayed.

He closed his eyes, trying to shake the thoughts away, but the ache in his chest persisted. Maybe it was time to stop expecting anything more than what was. But that was easier said than done.

He slumped back onto the bed, sinking back into the mattress. The soft pillow cradled his head as he turned over with a heavy sigh, his limbs stretching out in a lazy, reluctant motion. But as his body lengthened, his skin brushed against something unpleasant. Scratchy patches on the sheets, remnants of last night. The dried cum clung to the fabric. The sensation made him wince, a low groan escaping his lips. He should move, get up, strip the bed, and wash away the mess of what had transpired.

But he didn’t move. He couldn’t.

Because in the midst of the discomfort, something else caught his attention. Your scent, faint but unmistakable, lingering on the other pillow. It was as if you were still there, your presence woven into the very threads of the fabric. You had stayed, at least for a little while. Long enough for your scent to be absorbed into the pillow, a whisper of you left behind, something for him to cling to in your absence.

His chest tightened as he turned his head toward the pillow, his face pressing into it, inhaling deeply. The smell of you filled his nostrils, a mix of your shampoo, your skin, your warmth. It was intoxicating, even as the emptiness of the room threatened to overwhelm him. He rubbed his nose against the material, almost desperately, as if he could pull you back to him through sheer force of will.

But the scent was just a ghost of you, a fleeting trace that would fade with time, just like every other time you’d left. And yet, it was enough to keep him there, lying motionless in the bed, eyes closed as he tried to hold onto that last bit of you for as long as he could.

Eventually, he had to get up, though the thought of leaving the bed felt almost unbearable. The warmth of the sheets, the memory of you imprinted on the fabric, it was all he had left of you this morning. But the insistent pressure in his bladder was hard to ignore, and he wasn’t about to wet the fucking bed, no matter how tempting the idea of staying wrapped up in that bittersweet cocoon was. 

He lingered for a moment longer, his mind toying with the idea of just ignoring it, but even he had to admit that was ridiculous. With a resigned sigh, he pushed himself up, his movements slow, like he was dragging himself out of a dream he wasn’t ready to wake from.

The walk to the bathroom felt longer than usual, the cool tile beneath his feet jarring him further from the hazy comfort of the bed. He stood there, staring blankly ahead as he relieved himself, his thoughts still swirling around the same question: Why had you left? He tried to shake it off, telling himself it didn’t matter, but the question clung to him, refusing to be ignored.

He washed his face, the cold water shocking his system, hoping it would clear his head, but instead, it only sharpened the thoughts he’d been trying to avoid. You’d left, again. And once more, he was left grappling with the same, nagging ache in his chest, wondering why he couldn’t just let it go. 

Brushing his teeth, he glanced at his reflection in the mirror: hair a mess, a mix of frustration and confusion etched into his features. By now, he should be over it. After all, this wasn’t the first time you’d slipped out before dawn, leaving him to wake up alone. He should be used to it. He shouldn’t expect anything more from you. Because you weren’t his and he probably didn’t deserve it anyway. He should’ve been over it. 

But he hadn’t. And it was that stubborn, foolish part of him that kept hoping, kept expecting to wake up and find you still there beside him. It was that part of him that kept wondering what he’d done wrong this time, what he could’ve done to make you stay. 

He knew he could be difficult, especially in the mornings. He could be short and distant and sometimes even a bit of a jerk, and maybe you were tired of it. Maybe that was why you left. But it wasn’t that he didn’t want you there. Quite the opposite. It was because he wanted it so badly that he pushed you away, hiding behind a mask of indifference and sarcasm most times. It was easier than admitting how much he cared, how much he needed you to stay.

But now, standing in the bathroom, staring at his reflection, he couldn’t help but feel like an idiot. Because the truth was, he didn’t know why he acted this way, why he couldn’t just be honest with you, with himself. Maybe it was fear, maybe it was pride, or maybe he was just too used to being alone.

Whatever it was, it didn’t change the fact that you were gone, and he was left here, alone with nothing but his thoughts and the fading scent of you on his pillow. 

He rinsed his mouth and spat into the sink, gripping the edges of the counter as he tried to steady himself. He thought he’d be over it by now, that he’d be able to shake off the lingering feelings, but he wasn’t. You were still on his mind, occupying every corner of his thoughts, and no amount of cold water or rationalising was going to change that.

With a heavy sigh, he turned off the faucet and leaned against the sink, closing his eyes for a moment as he tried to push the thoughts of you out of his head. But they stayed, stubborn and insistent. Just like him.

He descended the stairs, his footsteps quiet against the hardwood as he made his way to the kitchen. The plan was simple: a cup of coffee, something to clear his head, something to distract from the unease that had settled in his chest. But as he crossed the threshold into the living room, his eyes landed on the settee, and there you were. Sitting quietly, almost like you’d always been there.

“Oh.” he said, the word slipping out before he could think. For a moment, he just stared, his mind struggling to reconcile the relief washing over him with the surprise of seeing you there. So, he’d freaked out over nothing. You were here the whole time. You never left. You were still here. You didn’t leave him.

“I thought you were gone…you’re very quiet.” he added, his voice softer now, tinged with the remnants of the fear that had gripped him earlier. Without waiting for your response, he turned abruptly, almost too abruptly, and headed into the kitchen. His hands reached for the coffee maker with a kind of desperation, as if the familiar motions of making it could somehow ground him, distract him. 

“I was waiting for you to wake up.” you replied, your voice carrying softly into the kitchen. “I’ll head out now.”

His hands froze for a fraction of a second, the coffee grounds spilling over the edge of the filter as he hesitated. He forced himself to keep moving, pouring the water into the coffee maker with slow care, focusing on the small details to keep himself from spiralling. 

“You have to go?” he asked, keeping his eyes on the counter, not trusting himself to look back at you. The thought of you leaving now, after the rollercoaster of emotions he’d just been through, felt like a punch to the gut.

“Uhm…yeah.” Your voice was hesitant, as if you were trying to convince yourself as much as him. You didn’t have to go, not really. But you couldn’t stay either. Not after last night, not after the way you’d felt waking up beside him, the way his presence seemed to fill every corner of your mind. If you stayed, you knew it would only get worse. Every thought would be about him, every decision coloured by his existence in your life. You couldn’t give him that. Not yet, maybe not ever.

He nodded slightly, more to himself than to you, as if trying to come to terms with your answer. He focused on the task at hand, carefully pouring the water and setting the coffee maker to brew, the hum of the machine filling the silence that had settled between you. The tension was thick, palpable, as if the room itself was holding its breath, waiting for something or someone to give in.

Finally, he spoke again, his voice softer, almost resigned. “I get it.” he said, though he wasn’t sure if he really did. Part of him wanted to ask you to stay, to tell you that you didn’t have to go, that you could have your coffee here with him, maybe talk about whatever it was that had kept you on the settee instead of in bed with him. But the words stuck in his throat, his pride and fear keeping him silent.

He heard you shift on the settee, the sound of fabric rustling as you stood up, preparing to leave. His heart sank, a familiar ache settling in his chest. He knew he should say something, do something to make you stay. He couldn’t let you leave, not like this, not without something to hold onto. As you began to turn, preparing to walk out the door, he found his voice again, softer but more insistent this time. 

“Do I get a kiss goodbye?” The question hung in the air between you, laden with more meaning than either of you wanted to acknowledge. It wasn’t just about a kiss. 

You paused, your back to him. You hadn’t even forgotten the feel of his lips on yours just hours before, the way they had claimed you. And now, he was asking for another kiss, one that you knew would linger in your thoughts long after you walked out the door.

You turned to him, trying to deflect the intensity of the moment with a joke. “Have you brushed your teeth?” you asked, a small, teasing smile playing on your lips.

“No, I’m filthy.” he replied, his voice a low rumble that sent a shiver down your spine. But then his expression softened, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your breath catch. “Of course I have. Come here.”

He didn’t wait for you to move. He stepped forward, closing the distance between you in a heartbeat. His hands found your waist, pulling you in close, his grip firm yet still gentle, as if he was afraid you might slip away if he didn’t hold on tight enough. Before you could say anything, his lips crashed into yours, the kiss hard, almost desperate, like he was trying to pour everything he couldn’t say into this one moment.

You melted into him, your hands finding their way to the back of his neck, your fingers threading through his hair as you kissed him back. There was only him, the feel of his lips against yours, the warmth of his body pressed close to yours. It was overwhelming, intoxicating, and for a moment, you let yourself get lost in it, forgetting why you had wanted to leave in the first place.

But then reality crept back in, and you gently pulled away. His forehead rested against yours, his eyes closed as he held you there, neither of you wanting to break the contact just yet.

“You don’t have to go.” he whispered, his voice raw, almost pleading. But he didn’t let the words hang, didn’t give you a chance to respond before he pulled back, releasing you from his grip with a reluctance that was palpable.

You took a step back, trying to steady yourself. You wanted to stay. God, you wanted to stay. But the fear of what that would mean, of how deeply you were starting to feel for him, made you hesitate.

“I should go.” you said softly, even though your heart screamed at you to stay.

He nodded, his expression guarded now, the moment slipping away as quickly as it had come. “Yeah.” he replied, his voice back to that resigned tone, already bracing himself for the inevitable.

But as you turned to leave, the memory of his kiss still fresh on your lips, you couldn’t help but wonder if this would be the last time you’d ever feel them.

“I’ll see you around?” you said softly, your voice a mix of regret and finality. You didn’t really want to leave, but staying felt too dangerous, too much like surrendering a part of yourself.

“Yeah.” he replied, barely audible over the sound of the coffee brewing. He still didn’t turn around, his hands gripping the counter as he tried to hold himself together. “See you.”

And just like that, you were gone.

The door clicked shut behind you, and the silence that followed was deafening. He stood there for a long time, staring blankly at the coffee maker as the scent of freshly brewed coffee filled the kitchen. But the comfort he’d hoped to find in the routine of making coffee was nowhere to be found. All he could think about was you. How close you’d been. And how far away you felt now.

He finally poured himself a cup of coffee, the steam rising from the mug as he brought it to his lips. But the bitterness that coated his tongue did nothing to chase away the bitterness in his heart. He set the mug down, nearly untouched, and slumped against the counter, the weight of his own silence pressing down on him.

Why couldn’t he just say what he was feeling? Why did he always push you away, only to regret it the moment you were gone? He didn’t have an answer. All he knew was that you were gone, and he was left alone with nothing but his thoughts and that stupid hollow ache in his chest.

And as much as he tried to shake it off, he couldn’t help but wonder if, next time, you wouldn’t come back.

A whole day had passed since you left, and Alex had spent every minute of it in a haze, his thoughts circling back to you no matter how hard he tried to distract himself. Everything in his house reminded him of you. The scent of you still lingered on the pillow because he refused to change the pillowcase despite changing the sheets. And the echoes of your voice seemed to reverberate through the rooms. He couldn’t escape it, couldn’t escape you. It was driving him mad, this incessant need to have you close, to know that you were still within reach.

He’d been restless all day, pacing the length of his living room, trying to push down the gnawing feeling in his chest. He picked up his guitar at one point, thinking maybe music would help drown out the noise in his head, but all it did was conjure images of you, sitting on his sofa, listening with that half-smile on your lips that always made him play a little better, a little softer, just for you. He put the guitar down almost immediately, frustrated by how easily everything tied back to you.

And now, as the evening shadows stretched across the room, he found himself staring at his phone, your contact open on the screen. He’d been here before, earlier today, hesitating before finally calling, but he hadn’t been able to bring himself to actually press the button. It had felt too soon, too desperate. But now? Now he didn’t care. Maybe he was being dramatic, but he needed to hear your voice, needed to know that you hadn’t walked out of his life for good. 

He hit the call button, holding his breath as the phone rang, each beep hammering in his chest like a countdown. It rang once, twice, three times. Long enough for doubt to creep in, to make him think maybe you wouldn’t answer. Maybe you’d seen his name on your screen and decided to let it go to voicemail, or worse, block his number entirely for some reason. But then, just as he was about to give up, the ringing stopped, replaced by the soft hum of background noise on your end.

“Hi?” Your voice was cautious, unsure, like you weren’t entirely certain it was him calling. The sound of it hit him, the relief almost painful.

“Come over.” he said immediately, the words tumbling out of his mouth before he could stop them. He knew he sounded abrupt, maybe even a little demanding, but he couldn’t help it. He was never good with words, especially not when it came to you.

There was a pause on your end, making his anxiety spike. “Alex, you can’t expect me to just drop everything every time just ’cause you feel like fucking me.” you finally said, your voice carrying that slight edge of frustration that cut through him like a knife.

He clenched his jaw, trying to keep his emotions in check. It wasn’t about fucking you. God, it was never just about that. But how could he make you understand that without sounding even more pathetic? The thought of you thinking he only saw you as someone to call when he was horny made him sick. You were more than that to him. So much more. But he couldn’t find the words to tell you that. Not now, not like this.

“Please.” he said, his voice softening as he forced himself to swallow his pride. “Please just come ‘ere. I’m leaving tomorrow. I wanna see you one last time.”

The lie slipped out so easily, a last-ditch effort to get you to come over. He wasn’t leaving tomorrow. He had weeks before he had to leave for tour again. But the desperation in his chest wouldn’t let him play it cool. And maybe, deep down, he hoped you’d see through the lie, hoped that you’d understand just how much he needed to see you, even if he couldn’t say it outright.

The silence on the line stretched on, each passing second feeling like an eternity. He could almost hear the wheels turning in your head, the internal debate you were having with yourself about whether to give in to him again. He knew he was asking too much, that he had no right to demand anything from you, but he couldn’t help it. He was terrified of watching you walk out of his life for good.

“Alright.” you finally said. “But this is the last time, Alex. I mean it.”

He nodded, even though you couldn’t see him, even though the words felt like a death sentence. “Yeah.” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “See you soon.”

As the call ended, he let the phone slip from his hand. He’d won this round, if you could even call it that, but it didn’t feel like a victory. Your warning echoed in his head, the finality of it making his stomach churn. He knew he was on borrowed time, that he couldn’t keep doing this. Calling you, pulling you back in, and then leaving, without eventually driving you away for good. And the thought of that, of you finally walking away and never coming back, scared him more than he cared to admit.

But for now, you were coming. 

He had no idea how long it would take for you to arrive, but he knew himself well enough to know that if he didn’t start getting ready now, he’d end up getting distracted by something else, only to realise, too late, that time had slipped away. So, he decided to prepare, though he wasn’t entirely sure what he was preparing for. All he knew was that he wanted to look good for you, be ready when you walked through that door.

He spent an absurd amount of time staring at his wardrobe, trying to decide what to wear. It was ridiculous, really. Half the clothes in there looked almost identical. His fingers skimmed over a row of white shirts, each one practically a clone of the other, but somehow it felt important to choose the right one. After what felt like an eternity of deliberation, he settled on the single one that wasn’t ironed, of course. But it was the softest, and that mattered more. He wanted to feel soft under your touch because he knew, despite everything, there would inevitably be touching. He wanted to touch you, too, more than anything.

He slipped the shirt over his shoulders, but the creases were more pronounced than he’d anticipated, overshadowing the softness he wanted to present. He frowned, debating whether it was worth the effort to iron it. Ultimately, his aversion to ironing won out, and he turned back to the wardrobe.

After rummaging through the hangers, he found a white sweater. Simple, fuss-free, and just as soft. He pulled it on, smoothing the fabric over his torso, feeling more at ease. “Perfect.” he murmured, a small smile tugging at his lips.

He moved on to his hair, spending more time than usual trying to get it just right. Not too neat. He didn’t want to look like he was trying too hard. But not too messy either. By the time he was satisfied with his reflection, he heard the doorbell ring. His heart leaped in his chest, his breath catching. It could either be you or the food he’d ordered earlier, planning ahead for the evening he hoped you’d stay for.

He rushed to the door, his nerves tingling. He knew it wasn’t fair to pin his hopes on it being you. After all, it could very well be the delivery driver. But he couldn’t help it. He needed it to be you. He needed to see you standing there, to know that you had come back to him.

With a deep breath, he opened the door, half-expecting to be greeted by a paper bag filled with takeout. But when he saw you standing there, framed in the doorway, he felt a rush of relief so intense it nearly knocked the wind out of him. For a moment, all he could do was stare, taking in the sight of you, your hair, your eyes, the way you looked at him like you were still trying to figure him out.

“Hi.” you said, your voice soft but steady, cutting through the tension that hung in the air.

He opened his mouth to say something, but the words got caught in his throat. All the things he wanted to tell you, all the things he had rehearsed in his head while he was getting ready, they seemed to vanish the moment he saw you. Instead, he just stepped aside, wordlessly inviting you in. He closed the door behind you, the sound of it clicking shut echoing in the silence that followed.

He watched as you took in the room, your eyes scanning the familiar surroundings, the slight messiness that came from him getting ready in a rush. His heart pounded in his chest, the proximity to you, the reality of you being here, making it hard to focus on anything else.

He finally found his voice, clearing his throat awkwardly. “I, uh…ordered some food. In case you were hungry.”

You looked at him, a small smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “Yeah? What did you get?”

He shrugged, trying to play it off as casual. “The usual. Figured we could…I don’t know, eat, drink…and talk. Or whatever.”

You nodded, and the smile softened, but there was still that edge of uncertainty in your eyes, like you weren’t entirely sure what you were doing here, either.

He wanted to say more, to reassure you that this wasn’t just about the food, or the sex, or whatever it was you thought this was. But instead, he just gestured toward the living room. 

As you walked past him, your arm brushed against his sweater, and he felt a jolt, like an electric current had just surged through him. The brief contact was enough to make his heart race, a reminder of how close you were, how real this moment was. He was still caught up in the sensation when the doorbell rang again, pulling him back to the present. 

“Food.” he said, half to himself as much as to you, pointing toward the door. He took a deep breath and then quickly strode over to get it, using the brief task as a moment to collect himself. 

As he reached for the doorknob, his hand trembled slightly. He opened the door to the delivery driver, exchanging a few quick words before taking the bag and closing the door behind him. The smell of the food filled the hallway. Warm. Good. But it did little to calm the nerves still buzzing under his skin.

He turned back to you, who had taken a seat on the sofa, watching him with an expression he couldn’t quite read. There was something in your eyes that made him feel like he was standing on the edge of something he couldn’t grasp.

“Hope you’re hungry.” he said, trying to inject some lightness into his voice as he carried the food into the living room.

You nodded, though your smile was faint, almost like you were still deciding whether you’d made the right choice in coming here. He set the bag down on the coffee table and began unpacking the containers, focusing on the task to avoid the intensity of your gaze. 

“Thanks for this.” you said, your voice soft, almost like you were testing the waters.

He glanced up at you, offering a small smile in return. “Yeah, no problem.” he replied, trying to sound as casual as possible. But beneath the surface, his thoughts were racing, each one centering around you, wondering if this would be the last time you’d share a moment like this, the last time he’d have the chance to be close to you like this.

As you reached for one of the containers, your hand brushed against his again, and that same electric jolt sparked through him. He swallowed hard, willing himself to stay calm, to not let the moment slip away. 

“I’m glad you came.” he said quietly, the words slipping out before he could stop them.

You looked up at him, your eyes searching his, and for a brief moment, it felt like the entire world had narrowed down to just the two of you, sitting there with takeout containers between you. 

“You always say that.” you murmured, a hint of weariness in your voice. You’d heard it all before. There was something in your tone that made his chest tighten, a small stab of fear that he was losing you, that he’d already lost you in ways he couldn’t fully comprehend.

“That’s because I am.” he said quickly, leaning in closer. “Glad, I mean.”

“Yeah…” You trailed off, your gaze dropping to the floor, and he could see the battle playing out behind your eyes. The war between wanting to believe him and the doubt that had taken root somewhere along the way.

“What?” he asked. 

“Nothing, it’s just-”

“You think I’m lying?” he cut in, his voice sharp, edged with something that almost sounded like desperation. The thought that you might not believe him, that you’d think he was just saying what you wanted to hear, made him feel sick. Because he’d made you like that. It was his fault. 

“No-”

“Because I’m not.” he insisted, his words coming out in a rush, almost tripping over themselves in his urgency. “I mean it. I really do.”

Finally, you looked up at him, and he saw the storm in your eyes. The conflict, the uncertainty, the lingering hurt that he had been trying so hard to ignore. But there was also something else, something softer and more fragile, like you were still holding onto a thread of hope, even if you weren’t sure why.

He reached out, his fingers brushing against yours. The touch was light, almost hesitant, but it sent a spark through him. 

“Okay.” you said finally, the word quiet, resigned. But there was a tremor in your voice, a small crack in the armour you had put up, and he clung to it like a lifeline.

It wasn’t the reassurance he wanted that he wanted. He knew better than to push for more right now. He could see how much this was costing you, how hard it was for you to even consider trusting him after seeing how he’d been all these years. So, he held back, swallowing the rush of words that wanted to spill out, and instead, he just nodded, offering you a small, understanding smile.

He could feel the tension between you begin to ease, the air slowly clearing as you both sat there, not saying anything more, but somehow saying everything that needed to be said. The silence wasn’t as heavy as before. It was more comfortable.

“Let’s eat.” he finally said, breaking the quiet. 

You nodded, and the corner of your mouth twitched up in a faint smile. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to make his heart beat a little faster. 

As you both reached for the containers again, the brief touches, the brushes of fingers, felt different now. They weren’t just accidents. They were small, but deliberate. 

He watched you as you picked at the food, your focus half on your plate and half on something distant, something he wished he could pull you back from. But he knew it wasn’t that simple. 

“I love you.” he said quietly, the words slipping out before he could stop them. 

You froze, the food halfway to your mouth, as his words hung in the air between you like a bomb waiting to go off. Your reaction was immediate, visceral. “What the fuck?” you blurted out, your voice sharper than you intended.

He blinked, taken aback. “What?”

“Don’t say that.” you snapped, your heart pounding in your chest, the tension that had briefly eased now spiking back up, almost suffocating.

“Why not?” he asked, his eyes narrowing slightly, confused and hurt.

You set down your fork, your appetite completely gone. “Are you drunk?” you asked, but even as the words left your mouth, you knew the answer. You knew he wasn’t. The clarity in his eyes, the steadiness in his voice, it was all too real.

He shook his head, his gaze locked on you. “No, I’m not drunk.”

Of course, he wasn’t. You’d heard him say those words before, in different moments, in different ways, but this time it felt like too much. Too raw, too exposed, and you weren’t ready for it. You weren’t ready for the weight those words carried, not now, not after everything.

But he didn’t take it back, didn’t try to soften the blow. He just sat there, waiting, his expression open, vulnerable in a way you hadn’t seen in a long time. And it scared you, the intensity of his feelings, the way he could just say something like that, with no warning, no prelude. It made you feel like the ground was shifting beneath your feet, like you were losing control of whatever fragile balance you’d managed to keep between you two.

“I meant it.” he added, his voice steady, but there was a hint of pleading there, like he was silently asking you not to shut him out, not to push him away.

You didn’t know what to say, didn’t know how to respond to the sincerity in his voice, the way his eyes seemed to search yours for some kind of sign that you felt the same. But you couldn’t give him that, not now, not when everything between you was so uncertain. 

So you did the only thing you could think of. You looked away, focusing on anything but him, trying to keep the flood of emotions at bay.

“I don’t know what to do with that.” you whispered, more to yourself than to him.

“I’m not asking you to do anything.” he replied, and when you finally dared to look at him, you saw the truth in his eyes. “I just needed you to know.”

“Okay…let’s eat.” you said, your voice a little too calm, a little too controlled. It mirrored his own earlier words, bouncing the deflection back to him like a tennis ball in a rally. It felt like you were both playing a game, passing the baton of deflection between each other. First him, then you, then him again, and now you once more. This game of emotional dodgeball was familiar to both of you, a dance you’d perfected over time. You’d just keep passing the discomfort back and forth, neither of you willing to let it land.

He didn’t say anything, just nodded slightly, picked up his fork, and returned to his food, his focus on the plate in front of him, the food he’d so meticulously ordered and now found tasteless. The sound of his own chewing reverberated in his mind, each bite louder than it should have been, filling the silence between you. It became a rhythm, a strange sort of grounding amidst the his thoughts.

But as he continued to eat, the realisation of what he’d said, those three words, started to hit him. He loved you. He’d always known it, deep down, in the way you lingered in his thoughts, the way his skin tingled when you were near, the way he was always searching for you even when he knew you were on the other side of the world, even when he knew you weren’t there. But saying it out loud, making it real. He hadn’t expected that. Not today, not in the middle of this cautious dance you both were doing.

And yet, there was no regret. No immediate panic, no urge to take it back, like all the other times he’d come close to saying it or actually said it. Instead, a smile tugged at the corners of his lips, subtle but there, a small victory over his own fears and insecurities. He finally said it. He’d let it out into the world, and it felt…good. Strange, but good.

He glanced up at you, wondering if you noticed the shift in him, but your focus remained on your own plate, your thoughts seemingly a million miles away. He wondered what you were thinking, whether his confession had caused a ripple in your carefully composed exterior. But he didn’t push. Not now. 

So, he ate. Quietly. The sound of forks clinking against containers the only noise breaking the silence. The weight of his words was still there, but it wasn’t unbearable. It was something he could carry, something he wanted to carry, because it was the truth. 

He stood up after finishing his meal, gathering the empty takeout boxes and the used utensils. You watched him quietly as he moved around the kitchen, his back turned to you as he threw out the trash and placed the dishes in the sink. The silence between you grew thicker, heavier, but you knew it had to be broken.

When he returned to the living room, he found you still standing, your arms crossed. He sat down on the sofa, trying to prepare himself for whatever was coming next.

“Do you know how many times you’ve told me that?” you asked. And there was an edge to it that made him feel uneasy.

“That I love you?” he replied, almost cautiously. 

“Yeah.”

He shook his head, unsure of where this was going. “No, I don’t know. I mean, I- I know I’ve said it before, but-”

“You’ve said it,” you interrupted, your tone sharper now, “and then you pretended like it never happened. And then you left. You got another girlfriend, and I was left there with nothing.”

He opened his mouth to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. He knew you were right. He had done that. More than once. Or twice. He’d let the words slip out, let the truth escape in vulnerable moments, only to backpedal and hide from it later. It was a pattern, one he wasn’t proud of, but one he’d never quite managed to break.

“I-” he started, but your gaze on him kept him from finishing. He could see the hurt in your eyes, the frustration, the years of unresolved tension that had built up between you. This wasn’t just about tonight. This was about every time he’d pulled away, every time he’d left you behind to chase something he thought was easier, less complicated.

“I’m sorry.” he finally said, the words falling short of everything he wanted to express. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I never did.”

“You never mean to.” you replied, your voice softer now but still laced with pain. “But you do. Every time.”

He looked down at his hands, the truth of your words cutting deeper than he expected. “I know…” he whispered, more to himself than to you. He knew he had a lot to make up for, and he wasn’t sure if that was even possible. But he wanted to try. “I know I’ve been an ass, and I’m sorry. But this time…”

“What?” you asked, the word laced with both frustration and a hint of vulnerability.

“Stop. Stop being so mean…” he blurted out, his own frustration bleeding through. “I- look, I know I deserve it, but…”

He trailed off, searching for the right words. His mind raced, trying to find a way to make you see what he was feeling, to make you understand that this time was different. He wasn’t just saying the words to fill the silence or to placate you. He meant them, with every fiber of his being.

He stood up from the sofa, running a hand through his hair, the strands falling back into place in a way that only added to his dishevelled appearance.

He looked at you, his frustration giving way to something rawer, more vulnerable. “I want more than to just fuck you, okay?” he said, the words coming out almost too fast, like he’d been holding them in for far too long. “It was never just that. Not for me.”

He paused, running a hand through his hair again, this time more slowly, as if gathering his thoughts. “I’ve been an idiot, I know that. I’ve acted like all I wanted was something casual, like it was all about the sex and all that, but it’s not…it’s never been just that.”

His voice softened, eyes searching yours for any sign that you understood. “I want…more. With you. I just didn’t know how to ask for it. I didn’t know how to let you in.”

You couldn’t process it, couldn’t let yourself believe it was true, even though deep down you knew he wasn’t the type to just use someone. But the fear was still there, gnawing at you, telling you that maybe this was just another line, another way to keep you close until he got bored or scared again.

You wanted to believe him so badly, to let yourself feel everything that had been building up inside of you for so long. But admitting it felt like stepping off a cliff, and you weren’t sure you could survive the fall if he didn’t catch you. So you stood there, frozen, caught between the fear of getting hurt again and the longing for everything he was offering.

He looked at you, concern etched on his face. “Are you okay?” he asked softly.

You nodded, though your heart was still racing, and sat down where he had been just moments before. He hesitated for a second, then joined you, his thigh brushing against yours as he settled in beside you. The touch was enough to send a shiver down your spine, taking you back to a time when everything felt new and thrilling, like you were 15 again and this was your first time at a boy’s house.

He felt it too. The nervous energy that made him feel almost ridiculous. Here he was, nearing 40, and yet he was sitting next to you, suddenly acutely aware of how close you were, and it made his heart pound like a teenager’s. It struck him how long it had taken him to finally say what he felt, to gather the courage to be this vulnerable with you. All that time wasted, and now he was here, terrified that he might have waited too long.

He looked over at you, his voice barely above a whisper. “It shouldn’t have taken me this long to tell you…” He hesitated, his eyes flicking down to your lips before he looked away, suddenly shy. “It shouldn’t have taken me this long to tell you.” he repeated. You could see the nervousness in his eyes, the way he fidgeted with his hands as if unsure of what to do next.

Slowly, cautiously, he leaned in, his breath catching in his throat. His lips brushed yours, feather-light at first, as if he was still asking for permission, still afraid to push too far. Despite everything you’d done so many times already. 

When you didn’t pull away, when you kissed him back, he melted into it, the nerves making him almost clumsy. His hands hovered awkwardly at your sides before finally resting on your waist, his fingers trembling slightly. He pulled back just enough to look at you, his face flushed, his eyes wide with something like awe.

“I’m sorry.” he mumbled, his voice shaky, almost embarrassed by how shy he felt. “I…I didn’t mean to…I mean, I did, but…” he stammered, his words tumbling over each other as his cheeks flushed.

He swallowed hard, the warmth of your body pressed against his making it difficult to think straight. When you straddled him, leaning in to kiss his neck, he felt a surge of need, maybe even a twitch, but it was quickly overtaken by something deeper. 

Your lips moved to his neck, and his breath hitched. He wanted to lose himself in the moment, in you, but something in him hesitated. He gently placed his hands on your shoulders, stopping you.

“Not tonight.” he murmured, almost pleading.

But when you leaned in to kiss him again, he shook his head, eyes filled with a vulnerability that made your heart clench. He grabbed your wrists and pulled them together, stopping you from touching any further, instead leaving a kiss on them. Each one. 

“Let’s go to bed.” he whispered. “I don’t want to fuck you. Not tonight.”

He wasn’t rejecting you, but instead, he was asking for something more. Something real, something that went beyond the physical. He wanted to hold you, to be close to you in a way that wasn’t just about lust and sex like you’d both pretended it was. He wanted to be with you fully, to feel you beside him as more than just a fleeting moment.

He wanted to love you.

The next morning, he woke up to the soft sensation of your hand tracing delicate patterns on his skin, right above where his boxers sat on his hips. He blinked awake, still groggy, but aware enough to feel the warmth of your presence beside him.

“You’re here.” he tried to whisper, but his voice came out rough, his throat dry from sleep. It was more of a rasp than anything else, and he noticed the way you smiled slightly at the sound, knowing you always liked his morning voice whenever you got to hear it.

He reached down, placing his hand over yours, feeling the way your fingers paused before continuing their slow movement. 

You didn’t say anything, and neither did he, but there was something different in the way you looked at each other. He shifted slightly, turning toward you, wanting to be closer, to pull you against him and keep you there.

“Morning.” he finally managed to say, his voice still thick with sleep, but softer now.

He kissed you, not caring that neither of you had even gotten out of bed yet. He just wanted to feel you close, to taste the morning on your lips, to remind himself that you were really there. 

“You’re gross.” you murmured against his mouth, but he could feel the smile in your words.

“I told you…I’m filthy.” he whispered back between kisses, grinning.

Your hand wandered down his stomach, tracing the lines of his abs before slipping lower. You found him already hard, his cock straining against the waistband of his boxers, your fingers already grazing along his naked skin from how the tip was poking out. He gasped, his body trembling at your touch, and you laughed softly, amused by his reaction.

“Sorry.” he mumbled, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment. He hadn’t realised he’d woken up like this, and just how turned on he was. He hadn’t even noticed it until your touch brought it to his attention. But with you next to him, it made sense. He wanted you. 

Still, he didn’t want you to feel pressured. “We don’t have to do anything.” he added quickly. “It’ll go down.”

But the look in your eyes told him you were far from bothered. 

He couldn’t hide his surprise when your hand slid inside his boxers, bypassing his cock and going straight for his balls. When you squeezed, a noise escaped him, completely involuntary, sounding almost like a squeaky toy, and his face flushed even more. You did it again, watching him squirm, a smirk playing on your lips.

“I’m sure it will” you said, your voice teasing.

“Don’t let it go to your head.” he warned, still trying to maintain some semblance of control.

“What?” you asked innocently, your hand still rubbing him slowly.

“The fact that I’m in love with you.”

“Mhmmm…” you hummed in response, your eyes never leaving his. Your hand continued its slow massage. His breathing grew heavier, and you could see the redness spreading across his cheeks.

“I’m still the boss, eh?” he smirked, attempting to reclaim some authority despite how much you were clearly affecting him.

“Yeah, you are.” you murmured, playing along.

“That’s right.” he said, and in one swift motion, he flipped you over him. You found yourself straddling his chest, your head right near his crotch, and his hands immediately went to your ass. The shirt you were wearing, his shirt, rode up, and you didn’t even have time to process how quickly he had manoeuvred you into this position. His eyes were glued to where your panties hugged your pussy, and his grip on your flesh tightened.

“Fuck, you’re hot.” he muttered, his hands kneading your ass, inching closer to pulling your panties aside as his lips moved toward your skin. The way he had you positioned, with his eyes locked on your every movement, left you feeling utterly exposed and yet completely wanted.

His fingers brushed lightly over your clothed cunt, teasing the fabric against your sensitive flesh. The sensation sent jolts of pleasure straight to your core, making it nearly impossible to stay still. 

Despite being the one on top, you were the one squirming under his touch, your thighs trembling as his fingers traced slow circles over your panties. Each touch felt like torture. You could feel how wet you were, the damp fabric sticking to your skin, and his smirk told you he could feel it too.

“Stop it, Alex.” you breathed, your voice betraying your growing need. You wanted him. No, you needed him. And this slow, teasing game was driving you insane.

He chuckled softly, his fingers pausing just long enough to make you ache with anticipation. “You want me to stop?” he asked, his tone mocking, knowing exactly how much you wanted him to continue.

You bit your lip, trying to maintain some semblance of control, but it was no use. The need pulsing through you was too strong, and he was all too aware of it. 

“I can’t take it anymore.” you whispered, your voice tinged with desperation.

A dark glint sparked in his eyes, and his smirk widened. His fingers suddenly hooked into the edge of your panties, pulling the fabric to the side and exposing your wetness to him. The cool air hit your bare skin, making you shiver. His eyes darkened as he took in the sight, a low groan rumbling in his chest.

“Suck my cock.” he commanded, his voice rough, his hand lingering close to your throbbing core. “Suck my cock and I’ll touch your pussy.”

His grip on your ass tightened, urging you forward until your face was hovering just above his dick. You hesitated for only a moment, your need for release overtaking any lingering thoughts of resistance. You leaned down, pulled him out, your breath hot against his length as your mouth finally closed around the tip of his cock.

The taste of him filled your senses, and you could feel his body tense beneath you. He groaned, the sound vibrating through his body, and his fingers finally brushed against your exposed cunt, stroking your slick folds with a gentle touch. 

As you took him deeper into your mouth, his fingers began to move more purposefully, rubbing against your clit in a way that made it impossible to focus on anything but the overwhelming pleasure coursing through your body. You moaned around his cock, your hips involuntarily grinding against his hand as he worked you closer to the edge.

The room was filled with the sounds of your muffled moans and his heavy breathing, each of you driving the other closer to a breaking point. His hand on your pussy, your mouth on his cock. It was a perfectly chaotic dance of desire and desperation, each touch, each movement pulling you deeper into the abyss of each other.

He urged you on with a primal urgency. “Deeper…deeper.” he growled, his voice trembling with desire as he moved one of his legs around your head, practically trapping you in his grip, using it to guide you lower, to take him in even further. His cock pressed deeper into your throat, and you complied, swallowing around him with a fervour that matched the need in his eyes that you couldn’t see. 

As you took him fully, your throat constricting around his length, his fingers resumed their relentless pace between your legs. The wet noises of his fingers thrusting into you echoed around the room, a stark contrast to the muffled sounds of your own pleasure. He had four fingers inside of you. And they moved rapidly, stretching you, filling you. 

You could feel his fingers curling and thrusting, pressing against your inner walls, your cunt moulding around his knuckles. Every time his fingers brushed past that resistance point, your body throbbed and quivered. You were stretched open, your hole gripping him tightly, the pulsing rhythm of your pleasure synchronising with the steady pace of his hand.

His eyes were locked onto the sight of you, completely entranced by how you took him, how you took his fingers and how your body responded so eagerly. The way you were stretched around him, your hole eagerly moulding to his shape, added to the unfiltered intensity of the moment. The combination of his cock filling your throat and his fingers thrusting into your dripping cunt created a symphony of wet, needy noises that filled the room.

You were lost in a haze of pure, unrestrained pleasure, every sound, every touch blending into a single overwhelming sensation. Each time he thrust into you, you tightened around him, your moans vibrating around his cock, matching the ferocity of his touch.

He drove his fingers into you with an urgent, relentless pace, and you could feel the burn of his movements intensifying with each thrust. It was a searing pleasure, almost too much to handle, but it felt so incredibly good that you couldn’t help but ride the wave of sensations he was creating. The speed and intensity of his fingers pushed you to the brink, and each stroke made your insides pulse and contract around him.

“That’s it. That’s it…” he drawled out, his voice thick with satisfaction as he coaxed the pleasure from you, his grip on your ass still firm and even more demanding. The rhythm of his hand was insatiable, and it wasn’t long before you could no longer hold back. You came around his fingers, your body convulsing with an intensity that had you crying out around his cock.

The vibrations of your cries sent shudders through him, and you instinctively tried to pull back for air, but he wasn’t having any of it. His leg, still hooked tightly around your head, kept you firmly in place. “Stay fucking down.” he growled, his voice low and commanding. His hips surged up, thrusting his cock even deeper down your throat, making you feel every inch of him.

The intensity of his movements was overwhelming. You could feel his cock so deep in your throat, it felt like you could almost sense it from the outside. The combination of his relentless thrusts and the tight grip of his leg around you kept you from moving, from escaping the suffocating, ecstatic pressure of him filling your mouth. Each thrust was met with a reflexive swallow and a desperate, muffled cry of pleasure, your body writhing as the wave of his dominance and your own desperate need collided.

His control over his moans slipped as he felt himself nearing the edge. “Fuck…fuck fuck fuck- oh- oh God, I’m gonna cum.” he gasped, his voice thick with desperation. His hips drove upward with a final, forceful thrust, and you felt his cock pulse violently in your throat.

The heat of his release hit you almost immediately. He came down your throat in shuddering bursts. Each spurt seemed to fill your mouth, overwhelming you with his salty, sticky essence. You didn’t even have to think about swallowing. His depth left you with no choice but to gulp down his cum. 

Your body instinctively swallowed, and you could feel every spasm and pulse of his orgasm as he emptied himself down your throat. His grip on you tightened, and his leg kept you pinned, ensuring you were completely at his mercy. The fullness of his cum in your throat created an intense, overwhelming feeling, leaving you utterly consumed by him.

His hips bucked one last time, weak and trembling, before his body gave in, every muscle going soft as he melted into the mattress. The once powerful grip he had on you loosened, and you could feel his leg slowly slip from its hold around your head. He exhaled deeply, a long, satisfied breath, and eventually moved his leg to the side, freeing you.

But you didn’t move. Instead, you slumped down on top of him, your head coming to rest on his thighs, your body still humming with the aftershocks of your shared intensity. You angled yourself so you could look back at him, your cheek pressing gently against his skin, feeling the warmth of his body beneath you.

He was staring up at the ceiling, his chest rising and falling in the aftermath of his release. A moment passed before he finally looked down at you, and the expression on his face was so blissed out that it softened your heart. He didn’t even bother to sit upright, clearly too relaxed to care about the way his chin doubled as he gazed down at you.

And you liked it. You liked him anyway.

There was something incredibly endearing about how unguarded he looked in that moment, his usual bravado and control stripped away, leaving behind just him. The way his eyes softened when they met yours, the slight, satisfied curve of his lips. You smiled softly, your eyes still locked with his. 

You lay there for a while, basking in the comfortable silence, your mind slowly drifting back to reality. You shifted slightly, lifting your head from his thighs, and asked quietly, “When do you have to go?”

He blinked, seeming to come out of a daze. “What?”

“You told me you were leaving today.” you reminded him, watching as the realisation dawned on his face.

“Oh, right…” he said, almost as if he’d forgotten. Then he sighed, a little sheepishly, and added, “Yeah, I was lying. I’m leaving in three weeks.”

Your eyes widened in surprise. “Are you serious?”

“You wouldn’t have come here if I’d told you the truth.”

You opened your mouth to protest but stopped, realising he was probably right. The truth was, you’d come here last night because you believed time was running out. You didn’t know when the next chance would come, when he would be gone, and you didn’t want to miss out…miss out on him. The urgency of his supposed departure had pushed you to act on feelings you might have otherwise suppressed, or at least delayed.

You sighed, resting your head back on his thighs, staring up at the ceiling. “You’re right.” you admitted softly, the words coming out before you could second-guess them. “I didn’t want to miss you.”

His hand found your hair, fingers threading through it gently, almost soothingly. “Well, I’m not gone yet.” 

a/n: i know it’s a lot of just him thinking and thinking and thinking, i hope it makes sense and it’s not too repetitive or boring or anything like that. i was feeling a bit off at one point while writing it but then obviously got over it by the end…obviously. also for the first time since i started the blog i changed the ratio of the cover pictures i use in the posts and i’ve spent way too long meaning to do that but i didn’t want to cause like, they were all the same and i’m a bit ocd and i didn’t want to mess it up…anyway. oh and the title has nothing to do with valentines day, it’s from baby came home / valentines by the nbhd (cause part one is daddy came home, get it…)

tags: @st7rnioioss @theonlyoneswhoknowsblog @rentsturner @yourstartreatment @avxoxo1 @jqsvi @turnersfav @youresodarkbabe @psychedelicrocker @aacheinthejaw @zayndrider @humbuginmybones @tedioepica

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สําหรับการเล่นพนันในคาสิโน วิธีการเดิมพันในซูเปอร์ลีกเป็นอย่างไร?

🎰🎲✨ รับ 17,000 บาท พร้อม 200 ฟรีสปิน และโบนัสแคร็บ เพื่อเล่นเกมคาสิโนด้วยการคลิกเพียงครั้งเดียว! ✨🎲🎰

สําหรับการเล่นพนันในคาสิโน วิธีการเดิมพันในซูเปอร์ลีกเป็นอย่างไร?

การเดิมพันในซูเปอร์ลีกเป็นหนึ่งในวิธีที่นักกีฬาและผู้ชมกีฬาทำเงินจากการร่วมสนุกกับกีฬาที่พวกเขารัก. นักกีฬาต่างๆที่ออกมาแข่งขันในซูเปอร์ลีกมีคุณภาพที่สูงและความเข้มข้นของการแข่งขันทำให้การเดิมพันเป็นสิ่งที่น่าสนใจอย่างยิ่ง. ในการเดิมพันในซูเปอร์ลีก มีขั้นตอนที่สำคัญตามนี้:

ศึกษาข้อมูล: การรวบรวมข้อมูลเกี่ยวกับทีมที่จะแข่งขัน เช่น ผลการแข่งขันก่อนหน้า, การพบกับทีมต่างๆ และสถิติของนักเตะสำคัญ เป็นสิ่งสำคัญที่จะช่วยให้การเดิมพันเป็นไปตามที่คาดหวัง.

เลือกเว็บไซต์การพนันที่เชื่อถือได้: การเลือกเว็บไซต์ที่มีความเชื่อถือและปลอดภัยเป็นสิ่งสำคัญ เพื่อป้องกันการเสี่ยงที่อาจเกิดขึ้นจากการพนันออนไลน์.

จำกัดบทเดิมพัน: การจำกัดจำนวนเงินที่เดิมพันในแต่ละครั้งเป็นการป้องกันไม่ให้เกิดการสูญเสียที่ไม่จำเป็น.

นำเสนอการเดิมพัน: การวางแผนในรูปแบบการเดิมพันที่แตกต่างกัน เช่น การเดิมพันเดี่ยว, การคู่คี่ หรือการเดิมพันทั้งหมด จะช่วยให้สามารถใช้อย่างถูกต้องได้.

การเดิมพันในซูเปอร์ลีกสามารถเพลิดเพลินได้ แต่มากน้อยก็อาจเสี่ยงต่อการสูญเสียเงินที่ไม่จำเป็น ควรออกแบบยุทธวิธีและปฏิบัติให้เหมาะสมเพื่อเพิ่มโอกาสในการได้รับกำไรในการเดิมพันของคุณ.

ขณะที่การเล่นพนันในคาสิโนอาจดูเหมือนเป็นเกมนับถือตั้งแต่สมัยเริ่มแรก แต่มีกฎอย่างเข้มงวดที่ผู้เล่นควรทราบและสำคัญในการเพิ่มโอกาสในการชนะ เราจะพูดถึงวิธีเล่นพนันในคาสิโนที่สำคัญที่คุณควรทราบ

การทราบเกมที่คุณเล่นเป็นสิ่งสำคัญ ก่อนที่จะลงเงินเล่น คุณควรทราบกฎของเกมนั้นๆอย่างละเอียด และฝึกฝนกับเกมนั้นให้มากที่สุดเท่าที่เป็นไปได้

การจัดการเงินเป็นสิ่งสำคัญอีกอย่างหนึ่งที่ผู้เล่นควรสำคัญ เมื่อเริ่มเล่นพนัน คุณควรกำหนดงบประมาณเพื่อเล่นและยึดติดกับมัน ไม่ควรพนันเงินที่คุณไม่สามารถขาดได้

การเลือกโต๊ะที่เหมาะสมก็มีผลในโอกาสในการชนะของคุณ ควรเลือกโต๊ะที่มีกฎเกมที่เหมาะสมและตั้งค่าเดิมพันที่เหมาะ��มกับงบประมาณของคุณ

ในท้ายที่สุด การเล่นพนันในคาสิโนมิใช่เรื่องที่คุณควรพึงกังวล แต่ควรพิจารณาแบ่งเวลาการเล่น เพื่อประสบการณ์ที่ประทับใจและความสนุกสนานที่ยิ่งใหญ่ในการเล่นพนันในคาสิโนนี้

ในซูเปอร์ลีก ฟุตบอลเป็นกีฬาที่มีความนิยมและเป็นที่สนใจอย่างมาก การเดิมพันในซูเปอร์ลีกสามารถเสี่ยงดวงในการทำเงินได้หากทราบวิธีการเล่นอย่างถูกต้อง นี่คือ 3 วิธีการเดิมพันที่ควรรู้:

ศึกษาสถิติและข้อมูล: การศึกษาสถิติของทีมและผู้เล่น เช่น การแข่งขันก่อนหน้า, ฟอร์มในการแข่งขัน, การบรรยายของผู้โดยสาร และอื่น ๆ สามารถช่วยให้คุณทำการเลือกทีมที่เหมาะสมในการเดิมพัน

ระบุราคาที่เหมาะสม: ระบุราคาที่เหมาะสม คือเรื่องสำคัญสำหรับการเดิมพันซูเปอร์ลีก คุณควรทราบถึงพื้นฐานของตลาดเพื่อช่วยคุณเลือกทีมและตลาดที่เหมาะสม

การจัดการเงิน: การจัดการเงินเป็นสิ่งสำคัญที่ควรพิจารณาในการเดิมพัน คุณควรกำหนดงบประมาณให้เหมาะสมและไม่ควรเดิมพันจากความผิดพลาดหรืออารมณ์

การเดิมพันในซูเปอร์ลีกอาจเป็นทางเลือกที่ดี Histor. is The The

of Th of of using The The The The The The The The The E .

and The The The The . Allied The The The many .of rough a K on . a this open and Bac if “ a sunlight by This of of of p one The K Open an 202 of . Vested interest #5

3/4 th - threesomes, multiple characters | A Dorothy Alice / @dappltrash collab.

A workout in three:

It's in the details: the sleek slide of a kiss, boundless when pressed between muscle and skin. A cascade of kisses around the frame - sticky ruby slick to be caught elsewhere. Will you dip, bite your lip? Unspoken, we twine.

Lengthening under stroked desire, an unfolding under journey unfurled; patterns double up to triple, delicious crescendo in the mix. We glide; we groove - the three of us in poetry, synchronised and timed.

World between life where paradox arrives: tangled limbs, subtle moans and collective cries. This is a dance in sweat and twine, a ripe vine hung out in jealousy between us, crying twinned.

Dorothy Alice:

Mark - who passes the East End London stoop each day with a wave - how does this accidental meeting spark a golden fire between strangers Maya and Rita? Delicious kisses shared before fingers tangle an unspooling desire. They must be sharp with one hidden eye upon the gleam Mark reveals a third. Which

อีกหนึ่งวิธีที่คนมักจะสนใจในการทำเงินในคาสิโนคือการเล่นพนัน การเล่นพนันในคาสิโนมีหลากหลายเกมที่คุ้นเคยที่สามารถเสี่ยงโชคและสร้างกำไรได้หลากหลายวิธี ในบทความนี้จะกล่าวถึงวิธีการเล่นพนันในคาสิโน ซึ่งอาจช่วยให้ผู้เล่นมีความเข้าใจเพิ่มเติมเกี่ยวกับเกมพนันที่สามารถเข้าถึงในคาสิโนและประเภทของเกมพนันที่ทำให้คุณสามารถทำกำไรได้มากที่สุด

หนึ่งในวิธีการเล่นพนันที่ได้รับความนิยมในคาสิโนคือการเล่นการพนันบนโต๊ะของเกมอย่างเช่น บาคาร่า, ไพ่ป๊อก, รูเล็ต, และอื่นๆ การเริ่มต้นการเล่นพนันในคาสิโนมีขั้นตอนที่ต้องปฏิบัติอย่างมีระเบียบ เช่น การจะเล่นเกมใด การเลือกพื้นที่ในคาสิโนที่เหมาะสม, การจัดการเงินและการมีระบบการเดิมพันที่ดี เป็นที่สำคัญ

นอกจากการเล่นพนันในโต๊ะของเกม การเล่นสล็อตแมชชีนก็เป็นวิธีการเล่นพนันที่ทำให้ผู้คนสนใจ เกมสล็อตมักมีการจ่ายเงินอย่างมากได้ถ้าคุณสามรถทำนายผลของการหมุนชนะโชคที่ถูกต้อง

ย้ำความสำคัญของการเล่นพนันอย่างมีสติ และระวังการใช้เงินให้คุ้มค่า โดยการเล่นพนันควรพบความสนุกและสร้างความสุข และไม่ควรใช้เงินที่ไม่สามารถจ่ายได้ การปฏิบัติตามกฎและบำรุงรักษาการดูแลสุขภาพจิตเป็นสิ่งสำคัญในการเล่นพนันในคาสิโน

ขณะที่การเดิมพันในซูเปอร์ลีกเป็นกิจกรรมที่น่าสนุกและท้าทายสำหรับผู้เสี่ยงโชค การที่จะเลือกวิธีการเดิมพันที่เหมาะสมสำหรับคุณจึงเป็นสิ่งสำคัญ เพื่อให้คุณได้รับประสบการณ์ที่ดีและมีโอกาสชนะสูงสุด นี่คือ 5 วิธีการเดิมพันในซูเปอร์ลีกที่คุณควรพิจารณา

ศึกษาการวิเคราะห์ทีม: การทำการวิเคราะห์ทีมที่จะแข่งขันในซูเปอร์ลีกเป็นสิ่งสำคัญ เรียนรู้เกี่ยวกับประวัติการพบกันระหว่างทีม สถิติผลการแข่งขันก่อนหน้าและหลังการแพ้ชนะในระดับความสำคัญ

สำรวจอุบัติการณ์การอุปสรรคการเดิมพัน: ตรวจสอบค่านิยมของตลาดเดิมพัน เช่น สัดส่วนการ��ทงที่อยู่ในทีมที่แข็งแกร่ง เค้าโอดแรงหรือแม้นปีเตอร์

ทบทวนกราฟและประวัติการแข่งขัน: การวิเคราะห์กราฟและสถิติของทีมช่วยให้คุณเข้าใจสมมติฐานของเหตุการณ์และเลือกที่จะวางเดิมพันอย่างมีเหตุผล

ระวังการดูดี: จำกัดจำนวนเงินที่จะใช้ในการเดิมพันในแต่ละครั้งและไม่เสี่ยงเงินทุนที่คุณไม่สามารถขาด

อย่าลืมความบันเทิง: การเดิมพันควรเป็นสิ่งสนุกสนาน ดังนั้นอย่าลืมที่จะเพลิดเพลินกับเกมในขณะที่คุณเดิมพัน

โดยปฏิบัติตามวิธีการเดิมพันเหล่านี้ คุณสามารถเพิ่มโอกาสในการชนะและสร้างประสบการณ์การเดิมพันที่น่าจดจำในซูเปอร์ลีกได้อย่างมั่นใจ

[libidomechanica]

Untitled (“And bliss; that the World”)

—I’m o’er younger most sing no more.     Of flowers our loves, and that image for miniature long     years, and fish; but thou, mighty sense?—You with the earth so dear     he living here it was—

against the blinded rabbits, cows     with clear as they blink o’ Robie was none but mine ear perhaps     the secret joys, that distance of my mouth when Nature     she did Zimri stand; and,

never there was a home is wanting,     and of sprouting sealed. The find out of that is to me     only doth flesh until the white rush, but this is gone, O     thou arise, and night of

silence for our sun stand and bid     me in someone you hadst no disdaining hands, your pillow     teeth are thing water, and thou’ free from thee so far from they     will to sell, or Conquer

the day would have child was in the     lawns and a Vare of Poets fury through anchored. Through which     pose on the night and limb diffusive good and softly death,     the love of stone was born

for a preux chevalier—as it     should clang in his crime accursedly, confest, but promised     lengthening Eye to creep, are often she spot away: thanke     may appalling, loue which

for fear not; their voice of all they     who nere confess; a lovely, thou art desolation as     to Arbitrary Lord: and London, that flickering rain,     or up the meadows low.

Thy foreheads of adamant will     now. Forces we have calmly smile a haunted spot existence     could touch of Nativity some two feet sent out these     pleasures moved over

Theotormon’s limbs: he fell. With a     Zealousy, they rise new increse with crimson dropped with heaven,     with me, hopes to make her in the brain so will burn as close     best please their refuse his

seven statute-book, I can doe.     For things to Destroy, the Gods can prize: for Colleges on     human nature; but ever follow, if I but a dish,     and balsamum, to make

her heart was the sun that had it—     but I foundation of the all-weary to the cypress     cone, Tell her Treason bland, and brauest restore than the low: for     Laws less that day. And bliss;

that the World. I fear my Clemency     they keeping. In Angells Metal in friendly show they     care, art left to myself to another and sighs, the     Chloris partake, and sigh ?

[youremarvelous]

hair of the dog that bit you

fandom: Batman pairing: Gen, Tim & Jason centric rating: T tags: Whump, Alternate Universe - Paranormal Investigators chapter: ⅔ summary: Things get hairy when paranormal investigators Tim and Jason are sent to England in pursuit of a werewolf sighting. aka an American Werewolf in London AU

preview:

Jason points to the horizon. “Moon’s coming out.” Tim follows his gaze. The moon crests the horizon—full and round—and his arm explodes with heat. Molten fire courses through his veins, bubbling his skin like candle wax. A ragged scream rips out of Tim’s throat. He claws at his head, desperate for an escape. Jason bundles Tim’s jacket under his arm. “Breathe,” he coaches unhelpfully.

Tim falls to his hands and knees. His nails curl back like wood filings. His limbs shift out of socket with a series of sickening pops. The pain is blinding. “Please,” Tim begs as his teeth loosen and plunk to the ground between his lengthening hands. Blood fills his mouth and drips down his chin in thick rivulets.

He tries to speak, but his jaw dislocates with a loud crack. Pointy new fangs erupt through his gums and his mouth surges forward to accommodate them. Tim arches his back to scream, and his spine heaves upward, bursting down his back in a long, knobby ridge. His vision has gone yellow. Wirey, brown hair sprouts on his knuckles and down his arms. He can hear his bones grinding together, the wet gurgle of his organs churning into place. Tim coughs and retches. “Help me,” he groans in a voice that isn’t his own. It’s deeper, unearthly, rumbling through his chest like thunder.

He thinks it will never end, but then, just as abruptly as it started, it stops. The white-hot pain dims, then dies out completely. A bottomless well of power takes its place, intoxicating and unending. Tim thinks, impossibly, that he’s hungry, and then he doesn’t think anything at all.

read on ao3

[dilfbane]

Koschei - Dhawan!Master x Reader - Part I

Summary: On the streets of London, you find a notebook. And you see the Master, there in the darkness. He teaches you how to be God. Doctor Who x Death Note crossover. 

Pairing: Dhawan!Master x Reader, minor/implied Dhawan!Master x Thirteen

Warnings: Death and descriptions of death, darker tone, and liberal reinvention of some of the main mechanics of how Time Lords and Death Notes work. 

Word Count: 1.4k

Prologue

A/N: Wanted to get the first chapter out today since yesterday’s prologue was super short, and also didn’t have much to do with Death Note. This chapter will serve as set up for the whole premise/jumping off point for this story, and I will be posting the second part later this week, where we’ll finally get to see the Master and the Death Note in action! Hope that you all enjoy. 

Part I - Midnight

You were almost twenty-one years old, the very first time that you saw him. It’s always better to start at the beginning, he’d told you, once - So, when you think your life over, and the lives of the ones who have died, you do your best to go back to that sweltering night with the Doctor, all of those long years ago, when you were only a child, and Kira only a ghost. You were twenty years old, threaded over with Cyberman nightmares and faded Silurian scars, your mind full to bursting with visions of Davros and creatures you could not remember, and the Doctor had worn a man’s face and tuxedo, black pockets lined with red velvet; sharp eyebrows, and, somehow, a much sharper tongue. 

You had never known him to be scared, before, but that night - hot with threat, and with foreboding - he had been, and as you had wound your way through grimy nightclub back alleys, he had cursed under his breath. 

“Don’t touch anything,” He had told you, in that way that he did; the one that reminded you what, exactly, he was, and how human you’d seemed to him. You’d followed him silently, knowing not how to argue, or what he was funning away from, and the world had seemed to exist behind you - some alternate plain of muddled dimension to which you’d no longer belonged, hurtling towards its doom. You had heard a drum beating, then, loud in the night air, and frantic, matching the thrum of your pulse. 

“It’s my last chance,” The Doctor had said, collapsing onto his knees in a labyrinth of busted cartons and dirty brickwork. “Rassilon,” He’d said, “I’ve failed you.” 

You hadn’t known what he’d meant when he’d said it, but the lights from seedy massage parlors had spilled out of open windows, yellow and filthy on him, and you had seen he was crying, suit pants smudging with dirt. 

“Go back to the TARDIS,” He’d told you, “Now,” He had said, “That’s an order,” When you’d opened your mouth to protest. The tears had gleamed on his cheeeks, and your bones had ached in raw terror, but he had been the Doctor, yet, and eep in your heart, you had known. 

The way back, it had been harder. You hadn’t remembered where the Doctor had parked, and the night’s shadows had lengthened, reaching out for you with sharp and steely fingernails, tearing at your calm like thorns. There was a time when such things would not have frightened you, but it had been long past by then - You had known the Doctor too long, and too well, to ever truly feel safe. Sometimes, when you’d closed your eyes, the intricate lines of the Pandorica’s coding would flash, neon, onto the screens of your eyelids, and the piercing pain of the handcuffs punched new marks into your wrists; for a moment, it was easy to see the universe, and when you had, it was on fire, the sound of harsh laughter afore you, the Doctor nowhere in sight. 

That night, caught in the web of your fear for yourself and your worry for him, the only thing that you’d really seen had been the notebook, black leather corners poking into the caustic flourescence of spill-over lights, sinister letters cutting into your mind as it had beckoned to you. You had stared at it for a moment, feeling some dark, foreign emotion suffuse you, and despite feeling eyes on your back, you had found, when you turned to look, that you’d been completely alone. Your feet, your gaze, had gone frozen. 

What would the Doctor do?, You had asked yourself, in that instant of nerved time, suspended, as if you could ever have known. You’d taken one step forwards, then another, and the front of the notebook had swung into bright and clear focus, written in a lattice-work of circular motions that you had been unable to decipher. A new fear’d come over you, then, as your traitorous hand had reached out for it against your will, and a voice in your head that shifted and changed had said, frowning, This isn’t right. You’d seen one last glimpse of the Doctor as you’d first known him, when you were stupid, and young - Spiky hair untameable, coat tails flapping as he ran; a man who sat in front of monitors all night long, never needing to sleep, and took thirteen sugars in his tea - before your fingers brushed the skin of the notebook, feeling the slick, supple leather. The world had unfolded around you, and the dead things had metastized into unloved, solid forms. Somewhere to your left, through the din of a million people squandering their fragile, soon-ending lives, you’d heard a stone angel weeping, pouring its vitriol into the churned, bloodied earth. 

You’d felt him, before you’d seen him, a shape in the darkness too near you. All of your bad dreams, and every pani; each jump at an unexplained noise, and you had imagined what he must look like - yellowed and crumbling bones, black eyes and long, tattered robes, ripped full of holes by the pleading, scythe a devastating harbinger fashioned from polished and rippling metal. You’d imagined how his voice would sound, and wondered, Why me, Doctor? Why now? 

“Oh,” Said the Time Lord whom you would know as the Master, “This is going to be fun.” 

                                                   *

The being whose name is written in this notebook shall die. 

If cause of death is specified within six minutes and forty seconds, such a death will occur. If time of death is unspecified, the chosen being will die of a heart attack, or nearest equivalent, after forty seconds have passed in the current causal nexus. 

A being who uses the Death Note can go neither to Gallifrey, nor to Skaro, upon the moment of their death. 

                                                  *

He’d told you that it was a Death Note, and you had not looked at him. 

“You can’t go back to the TARDIS now, love,” He had told you, with that too-human,m too-cold, too-amused tone in his voice. “If you want to see the Doctor again, I’m afraid you’ll have to come with me.” 

“Who - who are you?” You’d asked, hand still clutched in a vice around the notebook, its front cover soft and warm. His cruel smirk and glinting gaze had been audible in the silence; you had not turned around. 

“If you must know,” He’d said, “I’m a Time Lord. You may call me the Master.” 

A wave of revulsion and shock had torn through you, and in it, you’d told him, “You can’t be,” From somewhere far outside your body. “You can’t be a Time Lord, the Doctor said they were all gone.” 

“You’d heard, and felt, his malicious grin widen, your ears picking up on the sound of the night breeze rustling fabric. 

“Rule number one,” The Master had told you, “The Doctor lies.” 

“No,” You had said, “Not to me.” 

“Mm,” He had told you, dripping with anger and spite, “Is that what you think about him? Do you think that he cares about you? The Doctor has lived for a very long time, love. He knows better than to care. Still, I have to applaud him for getting his hooks into you. It really is an impressive feat, considering you’ve found my Death Note.” 

“Who are you?” You’d asked him, voice cracking, limbs shaking, night cold. “Who the fuck are you?” 

“Me?” The Madter had asked, with a twinge of steely amusement, “Consider me to be… a friend. That’s not the right question, you know.” 

“Sorry?” 

“Who I am. That’s not the right question. You should be asking who you’ll be.” 

“Who will I be, then?” You’d asked him, and his voice had gone low and deceptive, silky as a stranger’s touch. 

“Look at me, love,” He had told you. “Look at me, and I’ll tell you.” 

You still remember how he had looked, when you think back on it all now. How he had been beautiful, all dark eyes and purple jacket, lapels embroidered with gold. All rough sideburns and inky, mussed hair, every joint and muscle deadly, elegantly poised. 

“Y/N,” He’d said, and nothing had been in his eyes but the sight of a planet aflame, a symphony of drums beating and shattering glass, “With my help, you’ll be a God.” 

[doflamingadonquixote]

An Almost Perfect Life 2/?

Summary: You are a young career woman at one of the bank in London and, at the same time, attending a PhD in Statistics. Your life was perfect until your apartment was invaded by two demons.

Pairing: Sebastian Michaelis x Fem!Reader x Claude Faustus

Previous Chap: Page 1

II. Trapped

Sitting at your desk you had your head everywhere except on the study. You knew that you would have to make an exam shortly to continue your studies in Statistics and you had been too late because of work.

"Young lady, do you want a cup of tea?"

You snorted as you watched, from under your hand resting on your forehead, Claude advancing with a teapot, which you didn't even know you had at home, towards you.

“Stop it with this young lady, it's irritating. Also, I asked you not to enter while I'm studying.”

But the demon still advanced undisturbed, placing the cup and pouring the contents inside.

“Claude, right?” you asked, dropping your head on the palm of your hand and watching the dark-haired man bend over near your desk.

He nodded a smirk that you thought you would never see on him.

“I usually appeal to this name. But I can adopt whatever name you want.”

You almost laughed at the cliché that came out of it if only you didn't know you could call him a different way only if you became his contractor.

“Are you really forced to make a contract to have someone's soul?”

The demon seemed to reflect on it as he returned to using his figure to inspire fear, taking the boiling teapot with him. Maybe he was thinking about whether to tell you the truth or not.

“Let's say it's the practice.”

“And what do you gain from being with a person who is not interested?” you snarled, returning your eyes to the book.

You were sure that the demon would go away once ignored, however a black-nailed hand positioned itself right on the page you were concentrating on and when you turned to scream something against it, you found he bent on the knees while the other hand closed around to your cheeks.

His eyes shone with a bright purple, as if a fire burned inside, while his hands were cold as ice.

“Everyone needs something, miss. Something they would give anything for. " He whispered, his face gravitating on hers, not at all disturbed by the little space that divided you. And that took you back to the day they entered your perfect little world.

 That Thursday all three of you were sitting in the living room. The thing had become little more than absurd in the few hours of the morning and you had been forced to pretend badly not to go to work.

“I did what you wanted, what else do you want from me?” you asked, squeezing tightly the glass of water that 'kindly' one of the two had brought you. You hadn't dared touch it for fear there was some drug or worse, poison.

The two men could define themselves very similar in many ways but different in as many.

“I can assure you of my stay motivation, miss.” The one with the fiery red eyes spoke, slightly bending the torso forward, as if trying to get closer to you despite the table that divided you. “As I said, I'm grateful for your care and I'm willing to repay you for whatever you want.”

You blinked, still confused by that speech. “You must have been the wrong person, sir. Maybe some other girl helped you last night...”

The one who hadn’t spoken up to that moment but only observed with disappointment, got up making his companion frown.

“I think it's useless, Michaelis. She has no intention of believing anything.” He snarled, shifting his yellow eyes over your figure, as you shivered into the bones. “I propose to make things easier for everyone.”

The alleged Michaelis raised an eyebrow towards him, shaking his head as if a child had just said bullshit but didn’t object.

Suddenly, the room was plunged into a darkness never seen before. It was as if someone had wrapped all three of you in a large, heavy black blanket but you were still able to see the people around.

Then, that same darkness only gravitated to the man who had risen and thick smoke surrounded him.

You were petrified as his body disappeared beyond the curtain of smoke and your mouth opened and closed several times, unsure of what to say.

Suddenly, something ripped through the smoke and landed right in front of the small table.

You screamed.

A small bat stood with its paws on the surface of the cabinet and looked around bored.

“H-How ... what trick did you use? Where he went?” you asked, pleading with the eyes of the other man who had settled better on the armchair now that the other's presence was absent.

The red eyes that landed on you seemed to vibrate and then a softer color conquered its place while the pupil lengthened like that of a cat.

Your mouth had suddenly dried out and before you could be forced to see anything else you hid your eyes behind the palms of your hands.

“Please, God. I have never prayed you but please, make this all just a dream...” you whispered, trying to close yourself in a ball. “I beseech you, don't let them hurt me...”

A laugh broke the silence that had been created, making you moan.

“Oh, my lady...”

A couple of hands encircled your wrists and although you resisted, they were removed from your face and you didn’t have the courage to close your eyes due to the proximity of the creature.

His fiery eyes surrounded you as if they wanted to drag you away. The lips parted in an unhealthy grin and four pointed canines peeked out.

“Nobody's going to hurt you here ... yet.”

Then, with the chaos that your mind had created and the dizziness that took hold of your limbs, you let the darkness surround you once again. This time without the two disturbing figures who watched you collapse.

“Rest well, miss.”

 “Now, Claude, it is not very polite to grasp Miss (L/N) in this way.”

The hand that had grabbed your face was violently pushed away, clenched in the iron grip of another hand.

“Sebastian, if you are going to attack yourself like angry dogs I have already told you to do it outside my apartment.” you warned them, certain that they would try to fight again just like a few days before. They had already broken a picture that had been given to you for your graduation, you had no intention of making other objects do the same.

At that statement, Sebastian tightened his jaw and took a forced smile beyond his will, releasing his fellow man.

“I was just trying to protect you, miss.”

You smiled sarcastically as you returned your eyes to the book.

“For the umpteenth time, I'm not interested in anything. My life is perfect as it is.” It was the sixth time in four days that you found yourself repeating the same sentence. Those two didn’t seem in the least to give up.

In the last few days they had come out of the house to get food and you wondered if they hadn't had bosses or eaten souls recently. How long would they have been so helpful and accommodating?

They could have claimed your soul at one time or another.

They were demons, dirty creatures from the underworld. There was no reason to connect them with gratitude to someone who had helped them.

You had to find out as much about them as possible, but asking directly would have been of no use. You weren't sure about this either, they could have lied to you and lead you on the wrong path.

Would the Internet help?

“When are you going to let me out?” you asked, pretending disinterest towards the two who looked at each other with grudging glances.

Claude was easily influenced by answering first. “When we are certain that this situation will not go screaming all over London.”

You smiled internally.

So there was something outside in the world that also frightened demons. You should have applied to find ways to get them away from you once and for all.

“For what?” you answered, dropping your back against the back of the chair and passing the pen over your mouth. “Nobody would believe me, anyway.”

Before Claude could answer again, Sebastian took a step forward forcing you to lay your eyes on him.

“It's all for your protection, of course.”

So there was certainly an intelligent one between the two.

“I have a job, demon. I don't make things appear like you do. I need to work.” You retorted it, frowning. “And you'd better return my cell phone.”

Since they told you everything, they also stole your cell phone and never returned it to you. You had to communicate the reason for your absence directly to the bank via the home landline phone but you had no possibility to use it at your convenience because when one of the two demons was absent, the other was always annoyingly around the house.

Claude pulled the cell phone out of his jacket and waved it in front of you, as if to attract your attention.

“She is right, Michaelis. We certainly don't want your dear colleagues to think you're under kidnapping.” And he held it out.

Excited you stretched out your hand to catch it but he pulled it back again. “How do you say?”

You were silent, offended by that stupid and incredible request.

“Thanks.” And you held out your hand categorically before him, blushing with shame and annoyance.

The cell phone was placed in your hand and when you finally managed to slide your finger across the surface you confirmed that it was reality.

On the screen, it was all as it should have been. Nothing had been touched or tampered with and all unread messages had remained untouched.

At least they wasn't intrusive.

When you looked up from the device, the two demons had disappeared leaving you alone in the room.

The phone vibrated in your hand and a familiar number appeared before your eyes. You answered.

“Honey, it’s mom...”

Those words, that voice, filled you with happiness and relief. A tear slipped down your cheek and you bit a finger to avoid sobbing. How much you missed your mother's voice during those terrible days.

“How are you? You haven't answered for days, I thought you were busy and when I called the bank they told me you were sick.”

Swallow, to keep your voice from shaking.

“Yes mom. It's all right, I took a few days to recover.” You answered, getting up from the desk and approaching the window beyond which you could see your neighbors walking home.

“I'm glad my love, your father and I were thinking of spending the week with you...” but then she hurried to add “... or the next one, if you want.”

You opened your mouth to beg her to pass as many times as she wanted, but the feline eyes full of darkness that you felt observing made you desist.

“E-Ehm, I believe that-”

Your wrist was gripped and suddenly raised upwards.

“It will be a pleasure, lady.” Sebastian replied, smiling voluptuously as you glared at him.

There was silence for a brief moment on the other side of the receiver but then your mother's ringing voice returned to fill the room.

“W-Who's talking?”

“Oh, how rude of me. My name is Sebastian Michaelis, I am a dear colleague of your daughter.”

You opened your mouth and without holding it back you let out a scream. “You, bastard! How the hell-”

But before you could go on, your mouth was covered again by one hand, preventing you from adding more.

“Very pleased, Sebastian. (Y / N) never told me about you.” Your mother replied.

Sebastian opened his face in his unmistakable teasing smile and looked at you.

“I would be happy to tell you about our relationship myself.”

With one last strong shot, you freed yourself from his grip even though aware that he had deliberately let you go. You brought the phone back to your ear and went back to the desk.

“Mom?”

“Oh dear, then see you next week. Please don't let that boy run away!” and hung up.

You stammered something on the phone, as if hoping your mother was still there and hadn't said those words.

You had no choice, one of the two demons should have been present in front of your fucking family.

[smallerinfinities]

Closer (Vampire!Shawn)

a/n: Oh, hey! Long time, no see! This idea came to me out of nowhere. Hit me like a freight train. I made this edit and it nearly killed me so I had to write this. The title comes from the Kings of Leon song, HIGHLY recommend checking it out before or after reading this. It’s always given me vampire vibes. ANYWAYS, here’s a little Vampire!Shawn for you...I’m kind of obsessed with it. 

warnings: 6.1k (WHAAAAT?!) of vampire content, smut, blood, the works 

It was long past midnight and the streets were quiet. Even in New York City there was an hour, usually between three and four in the morning, where hardly anything moved. It was his favorite time to take a walk, especially now when his dry veins ached. Shawn stalked up 7th Ave, away from his townhouse on St. Lukes Place, and whistled softly to himself.

In these quiet moments, he remembered the city as it was, decades and decades ago, filled with far fewer people and much more debauchery. He let the old sounds of memories long faded fill his ears, raucous laughter and tap, tapping of horseshoes on stone. The opening and closing of club doors that poured a cacophony of jazz music into the street. The acrid smell of bodies and saltwater, cigarette smoke and too sweet perfume, crept into his nose. Scott and Zelda laughed as they walked on either side of him, Duke Ellington humming along behind, making their way to Broadway to see Josephine in her last show before she moved to France.

Josephine. Shawn paused along the deserted avenue and closed his eyes. God, he missed her. Passionate, committed, righteous...he could taste it all in her blood. The fire in her veins had reddened his eyes on so many occasions in those days. Iron mixed with prohibition whiskey. A shiver ran through his body as his canines lengthened. He ran his tongue along their sharp, defined points. Feeling the warm metallic tang of his own blood trickle down his throat, he relived the sensation but felt no relief from his craving.

Six weeks. It had been six weeks since he’d tasted human blood. Her blood. A day hadn’t passed that he didn't think about that night, the sticky mid-July humidity clinging to his cool skin hours after sunset….

The Trinity. The neon sign flashed outside above the bar. Shawn had always laughed at the name, the obvious religious connotations. It was a vampire bar after all. Run by two vampires who once served wine to King Henry VIII, the bar had settled in the West Village almost a hundred years ago. It changed names, the owners changed identities, but the clientele remained cold and thirsty all the same. The Trinity was low-key but exclusive, a semi-dive bar with a bouncer out front, hilariously named Vlad, a massive Russian man with fists the size of a normal man’s head. Shawn flashed his red eyes at him, the only membership card he needed to gain entry.

“Meat is scarce,” Shawn heard him mumble. He winced at the euphemism. Meat just meant live bodies, humans who had come willingly to the bar as potential sources of blood. At Trinity, humans received a card that allowed them entry once every three weeks. For vampires, it was the best way to keep the blood supply fresh and undiluted. For humans, it was a status symbol, an underground and privileged one. But it also meant that some nights were slower than others, especially after events and holidays.

Some vampires were less appreciative of human life than others. They saw The Trinity as a trap, an easy way to catch prey. Willing sources were so scarce that vampires often lost control and bled them dry, whether they meant to or not. Shawn was a little less macabre. He was old enough to appreciate the fragility of humans, old enough to taste the subtle differences in blood quality. Humans allowed into Trinity passed a blood test, so he felt they were best kept alive. He couldn’t find a drug and disease-free meal just anywhere. Yes, he fed here. It was like Whole Foods and real-life Tinder all in one place.

He took a seat at the bar, nodding over to a group of younglings, a little too feral to be trusted. A thick cloud of smoke poured over him from the corner, choking Shawn’s sensitive sense of smell. He coughed and waved it away, revealing a familiar old woman in the corner with gleaming red eyes and long white hair. She took a long pull from her six-inch cigarette holder and blew another cloud of smoke at him, obscuring her very vintage 1820s corset.

“Bonjour, Shawn,” she said at the end of her exhale.

“Madame LaLaurie,” he waved a hand to greet her, trying not to make a face of abject revulsion at the red drops falling from her chin. Propriety was not a concept familiar to the old ones. Neither was blending in. Her costume froze her in time. Shawn looked down at his own black jeans and red short sleeve button up, a pair of chelsea boots on his feet. He was thankful that he’d been able to live—well, approximate living—over the years instead of calcifying, turning into an undead corpse refusing to move with the passing years. Dropping his head, he tried to shake the image out despite the smoke still curling in the air.

A whiskey sour, his usual, appeared like magic in front of him. Not actual magic–witches weren’t allowed here–but out of the hand of John Somerset, co-owner and purveyor of The Trinity.

“Shawn,” he nodded, his London lilt still clinging to his accent more than a century after leaving England, “it’s a slow night.” Shawn turned over his shoulder and squinted in the low light. The room was large, the size of a small warehouse, with several alcoves and nooks for privacy. Maybe twenty people milled about, some eyes flashing red, usually paired with a brown or blue or green eyed man or woman. One of them, a vampire with ginger hair and small features, wandered up to the bar with a young man, perhaps just recently legal. The vampire’s long white fingers wrapped around the boy’s hip. John’s eyes narrowed over the counter.

“Kit,” he addressed the vampire in a low voice, “be careful with the young ones.”

“Oh, John, worry not!” Kit’s grip on the boy visibly tightened. He turned to his companion and nuzzled his nose, drawing a laugh from him, “Tyler and I are just fine!” And so Tyler seemed to be, his rosy cheek pressed to Kit’s shoulder, intermittently turning to press wet kisses to his neck. It was a familiar sight. Kit Marlowe was a notorious letch, but he wasn’t much of a killer. Young Tyler was likely not in any danger, but John Somerset protected his bar as if it were his child. No foul play allowed.

Shawn slipped off his bar stool, leaving John to harass Kit. Wandering around the red-tinged room, he nursed his whiskey sour and took stock of the options in the room. He lifted his nose and closed his eyes. In one corner, the strong smell of nicotine and vaping liquid overpowered any unique notes he could have made out in blood. He moved on, scrunching his nose. There were a lot of masculine scents, pachouli, leather, amber, bergamot, and while Shawn didn’t discriminate based on gender–a man could be fun if he was looking to dominate–tonight he craved something a little more delicate.

A hand grazed his shoulder and he turned, startled, bowed and ready to attack.  

“How dare y—”

A wall of warm jasmine and citrus crashed into him. It disarmed him, turning his limbs into rubber. She smelled like summer sun, or at least, what he imagined summer sun to smell like. He’d forgotten some time around the beginning of the Wars of the Roses, a hundred years after he’d last felt sunlight. He leaned into her palm, still resting on his shoulder.

“Open your eyes,” she whispered, her breath gliding across his face adding a touch of mint to her bouquet. He hadn’t realized they were still closed. He squinted, adjusting to the harsh red lights again, and looked down at her.

At first, all he could see was white. She was wearing white from head to toe. A white sheer top over a white lace bra, white pants with little tears in the knees, white pumps. The red on the sole of her shoes was the only pop of color. Her clothes fit perfectly around her curves, the cleavage she let show leading his eye to her long neck and the pulse point there, fluttering with her beating heart. Even with all that confidence, she couldn’t hide the rush of coming face to face with time itself. She was a mortal angel looking for trouble in this hellish pit.

After the initial shock, his eyes caught hers. They glowed in the low light, twinkling his own reflection back at him. She was close, close enough that he could see each individual pore on her face, unencumbered by makeup. Her skin was beautiful, taut over her cheekbones and flushed with all that sweet smelling blood. His mouth watered a little and his eyes lost focus as he took another deep inhale. He felt that tell-tale lengthening in his mouth with a shiver. He was so...hungry.

He wasn’t sure how long he stood there, vampires kept time in decades and centuries not minutes and hours, but he sensed her every movement. Her feet shifted; her heart pounded; her hands flexed and relaxed. He smiled and felt her heart pick up speed, taking her hand and turning it over in his palm to trace the blue maze of veins in her wrist.

“You’ve never been here, never done this before, have you?”

“How did you—?” She ripped her hand away from him, a proud tilt to her head, “I know what I’m doing.”

“Oh, you might,” he chuckled under his breath, tracing a cold finger down her cheek, satisfied at the gooseflesh that bloomed where he touched. “You’re certainly sure of yourself. It’s rare a human catches me unaware. How did you do that?”

“I think you were looking for someone,” the corner of his mouth upturned at her words, I was looking for you, “but I don’t usually hesitate when I see something I want.” She was so confident, he didn’t even think it was false bravado. Just pure adrenaline. He’d never met anything like her.

“So, hello,” she stuck her hand out formally, like she hadn’t already wrapped him around her fingers, like he hadn’t already made a place for her in his bed, and told him her name.

“I’m Shawn,” smiling, he took her hand and shook it, careful to control his grip and not hurt her. They stood there like that, hands clasped together, for a moment. It was long enough for Shawn to feel her skin under his fingertips and wonder if her whole body was like that, soft and firm and vibrating with energy, with so much blood. Her heartbeat rang in his ears, loud and clear as if his own heart had come back to life.

She reached up and pushed a fallen curl out of his face, “do you wanna dance?”

“I….don’t dance,” he shuffled nervously, all his smug self-assuredness gone in a second. Centuries and cat-like reflexes hadn’t improved his shoddy dancing skills and he really didn’t want to embarrass himself in front of his future meal.

“Oh, come on,” she grabbed at his hand and pulled, “everyone dances a little, even stuffy vampires.” He followed her, let her pull him onto the world’s smallest dance floor in front of a certified vintage jukebox. The Gershwins poured through the old speakers, sounding more like a gramophone than anything nearing modern audio quality. She yanked his arms about in a makeshift attempt at the Charleston, kicking her legs out at weird angles. He could tell that she could move, she just had never moved in the 20s in front of a big band.

“Okay, okay,” he caught her hips and stilled them, “that’s not bad, but it’s not the Charleston either.” He showed her how to rotate her ankles and add her arms, eventually just taking her hands and moving with her forward and backward, swinging his awkward legs around.

“See! You can dance!” she held onto his arms and stepped back and forth with him, “were you alive in the 20s?”

“Ahem, alive?” he grinned, “no, I wasn’t alive...but I was pulled onto many dance floors in this city to do the Charleston in the 20s.” Her eyes blew wide, the first truly human reaction he’d seen from her.

“So...how old are you?” she had stopped moving, too shocked and curious to concentrate on the dance.

“That’s a rude question!” He faked indignance, slapping his palm to his chest. She snorted, crossing her arms and jutting her hip out to the side.

“If I’m going to let you drink my blood, you could at least tell me how old you are!” His mouth fell open. The unspoken arrangement between vampires and humans at The Trinity was just that—unspoken. He’d been coming here for decades and no one had ever been so bold. He tried to think back to the last human who had ever demanded something of him, especially something so sacred as his age, and was coming up blank. She was serious. Moxie, they used to call it. She was overflowing with it.

Fuck it. His sigh would have been more dramatic if his chest still moved with his breath.

“I was born,” he took a deep bow, his curls flopping forward toward the floor, “in the year of our Lord 1322.”

“Oh my God,” she gasped. He watched as she did the quick math, the cogs spinning behind her eyes as they grew wider with the realization that he was—

“Seven hundred.” She wavered and he stepped forward to steady her, let her lean into his side and breathe through the shock. She looked up at him and reached for his face, but he caught her hand first and held it to his chest.

“Well, I'm 697. The big 7-0-0 is a few years away.” He grinned, his fangs just peeking out from behind his cold lips. If he could blush, he would have in that moment. With her proximity came another wave of jasmine, mixed with something else, something much more feminine and earthy. He leaned down and touched his nose to her jawline, grazing it slightly and inhaling deep. It was heady. He could tell she felt it too. Her head tipped back and invited him in. His body stirred in a way it hadn’t in a very long time.

In another, more feral, life, he would have taken her right there.

“Do you want to get out of here?” he panted, a memory of humanity rather than a need for breath. She released the tension in her body, having braced for the bite he wasn’t ready to give.

“Jesus fuck, yes,” she nodded. He wondered how long she’d been waiting for him to ask. If he had to bet, he’d say before she even laid a hand on him. They gathered their phones, checked at the door, and headed to the street.

“Excuse me, miss!” Vlad called as they passed. He locked eyes with Shawn, “sorry, Shawn, you know it’s protocol.” Shawn shrugged and nodded, presenting her to him.

“Hello, miss, I just need to make sure you’ve consented to leave with him,” he focused on her neck, at the pulse beating loud and clear there, an almost foolproof lie detector test.

“Yes, I agreed to leave with him,” she looked back at Shawn, steady as a rock, and he nodded, bracing for the next bit. The bit that caused panic in the faint of heart and had lost him many an evening meal.

“And you understand that The Trinity is absolved of any liability for any injury that might befall you after you leave here.” Shawn heard her heart kick up a little but she stood her ground, swallowing loud.

“Yes, I understand.” She nodded, holding out her hand to shake on it. Vlad’s eyes lit up with amusement, taking her hand in his much larger one and shaking. Apparently her charm worked on even the most sullen of bouncers.

“Okay, miss. You’re good to go. Have a good evening,” he tipped his head and glanced past her shoulder at Shawn, “take good care of this one.” Shawn gave him a two-finger salute.

“See you, Vlad!” She waved cheerfully, grabbing Shawn’s hand and rushing into the night. He hailed a cab, impatient to get back across town. It was late and he wanted to enjoy the rest of the night, he had a feeling he wasn’t going to want it to end.

When the cab pulled up to his six-story Greenwich Village brownstone, he was tracing patterns on her knee, the rip in her jeans the only skin available to him. She looked out the window, letting out a giggle before slapping her hand over her mouth.

“You have to be fucking joking,” she crawled out of the cab, the tiniest clutch he’d ever seen in her hand. She let him lead her up the steps to his door, her neck craned all the way back to look up.

He let her inside and shut the door, their shoes echoing off the cool black and white tile. He’d watched this house be built in the 1850s, had snatched it off the market then and there. Over the years, he’d moved around. Europe, Asia, Canada, but he always came back here. His best memories were in this city, so he called this house home.

It was covered in relics from the past. A savonarola chair from the 16th century in the corner. An original Thomas Gainsborough portrait of himself hanging in the entryway. A suit of armor, the one he was wearing when he began this new life after death, stood at the top of the stairs. He turned and watched her study the portrait.

It was provocative for the time. Shawn had foregone a powder wig in favor of his curls, wild and unkempt in a halo around his chiseled face. It had been a challenge for Thomas, so used to the round and cherubic faces of the time, his brushstrokes not suited for a man with so many angles. She looked back at him and pointed, raising her brow, and he nodded.

“Yes, Thomas made me sit for hours upon hours for that,” he moved to stand behind her, his hands busying themselves along her ribs, “thank God it made it through the Blitz.” She leaned back into him, becoming breathless at his ministrations. His fingers pulled at her sheer top, freeing it from her jeans to allow his hands underneath against the bare skin of her stomach.

“Your hands are so cold,” she gasped. He brought his lips to her neck, leaving a trail of chaste kisses along her carotid.

“I know a way,” he traced the artery with his tongue, “to warm them up.”

“Oh?” She pushed her hair over her other shoulder to expose more of her long neck to him. He smiled against her skin and turned her to face him. God, she was beautiful, so fucking full of life. Had there ever been anyone who stirred him like this? He lifted her from underneath her thighs, wrapping her legs around him.

“Not here,” he nipped at her jaw, enjoying the squeak that left her in surprise, “no one bleeds in my entryway.” He carried her up the stairs, never panting, never stumbling. Even without his eyes as a physical marker of his Otherness, no one living could watch him and not know he wasn’t exactly human. He’d been vampire for so long now that it was all he knew.

They watched each other with every flight he climbed, eyes locked. His pupils were blown wide, anticipating the coming high. She pushed her hair out of her face and bit her lip, the only outward sign of nervousness he’d seen. When they reached his bedroom, spanning a whole floor of the house, her heart was pounding against his chest. He pressed her against the wall, still holding eye contact.

He finally broke away to lay his head against her chest. The sound of her heartbeat consumed him. Her skin burned his cheek. His fangs ached. He felt the rhythmic pumping of blood course through her body, around his neck in her wrists, around his waist in her thighs, and lower as she slid down on the wall and he pressed his cock to her pulsing heat. A growl escaped him, deep and animalistic.

He couldn’t find her mouth fast enough.

Their mouths collided, teeth and tongues, harsh breath and feral moans. He sucked her citrus-soaked breath into his lungs, drunk on her scent. She slid her fingers into his hair at the nape and guided him deeper into her mouth. She sucked on his lower lip, dangerously close to his exposed fangs. Biting gently, she pulled a groan from him. He backed away from her, letting her legs fall from around his waist. She tried to catch her breath, hands braced behind her against the wall.

The air between them crackled with opposing energy, hot and cold, alive and dead, predator and prey. When they collided again it was desperate, a labyrinth of hands and arms and legs tearing off clothing. She popped most of the buttons on his shirt trying to get it off. He accidentally ripped two more holes in her jeans trying to force them down her legs. With each barrier removed, more skin was revealed. Neither of them could stop touching, the urgency overwhelming them. Her skin was butter soft, even under his sensitive fingertips. If he could burn, he thought her hands might be leaving hot welts on his skin. Both in their underwear and nothing else, Shawn stepped back, perching himself on the edge of his massive bed.

“Come,” he beckoned. She stalked toward him, her perfect breasts bouncing with each step. He bit back a whimper. There hadn’t been a woman in his bed in years. He had almost forgotten what perfect creatures they were, all curves and softness, warmth and femininity. Reaching out, he pulled her thighs toward him. She straddled his lap, knees planted in the plush crimson red duvet. He cupped her face with his hands, running the pads of his thumbs over her cheekbones .

“Are you sure you want to do this?” he looked at her unblinking, letting her have all the time she needed to be sure. “If you want, you can get dressed and leave right now and never see me again.”

“No!” she cried, digging her nails into his sides like he was the one preparing to flee, “I mean I’m sure. I don’t want to leave.” She scratched at his cold skin, a soothing gesture. He pressed a kiss to the valley between her breasts, right above her heart. He let it beat against his lips, feeling the pebbled gooseflesh bloom on her skin, slowly trailing upward toward her neck. Her breathing was ragged, audible in the quiet of the room. She weaved her hands into his curls, tugging them impatiently. Smiling against her skin, he finally reached that pulse point he’d picked out earlier in the entryway. He cradled her head to the side, exposing the vein in her neck, thick and throbbing. He inhaled, running his nose from her shoulder to her jaw. Her scent was so strong. The citrus exploded in notes of lemon and tangerine. He wondered if she tasted like it.

His fangs broke skin.

Blood burst from her. Two streams of thick, hot life poured into his mouth. He battened onto her neck and suckled, his eyes fluttering shut, softly moaning against her. Colors exploded behind his eyelids, a kaleidoscope of yellow and orange and white, lemon and tangerine and jasmine. His arms curled around her, pressing her into his chest, farther into his mouth. Her whole body was vibrating with the force of her moans, her hands in his hair like a vice grip.

Her blood was liquid fire in his mouth, burning him from the inside out. He could feel the warmth returning to his fingers, a rusty pulse beating in his calcified heart. It was a hollow imitation of what being human felt like, full of faded memories that came back to life in an instant and then died again. A woman with flowers woven into her hair, a pale blue shift clinging to her nervous frame. A battle raging in a war he didn’t choose to fight in. A priest praying in Latin over the lifeless body of an infant.

Shawn’s eyes flew open.

He released her, taking harsh gulps of air, his seldom used lungs brought back to temporary life. The unbidden memories dissipated as quickly as they had come, but they left him disoriented. He fell back against the mattress, his fingers trembling against her thighs on either side of him, and looked up at her.

Her head was thrown back, chest heaving like she’d run a marathon. He winced at her neck. The puncture wounds were neat, he wasn’t an animal fresh from the Quickening, but he’d left blood smeared on her shoulder. She was still bleeding, two crimson rivulets pooling at her collarbone.

A high tinkling laugh startled him. Her face was flushed with exhilaration, the adrenaline rush overpowering the blood loss. She leaned over, placing a hand on his bare chest.

“It’s beating!” she exclaimed, wonder and confusion swimming in her eyes. He blinked at her, bleary-eyed and unsure if he could open his mouth to speak.

“Only for a little while,” he scratched out, his throat still burning from her citrus-flavored blood, “it will fade in a day or so.”

“Then will you feed again?” she looked down at her fingers, scratching lightly through his thin dusting of chest hair.

“No,” he took one of her wrists and kissed it right where her pulse beat strongest, “I only feed once every few months. This feeling, the heartbeat, it can be addicting for my kind. I try to ration as long as I can to fight the craving.” He looked over at his curtained window, checking the time. It was still dark as pitch, plenty of time left in the night with her.

“What are those?” Her fingers touched the two freckle-like spots on his neck. He hissed. She looked at him, alarmed at the sound. Quick fear made her pupils retract into pinpricks, but they relaxed as soon as he reached up to cup her cheek.

“Shh, it’s not you; they’re just sore,” he stretched his neck to the side to give her a better view. “It’s my change mark, the impression left by the vampire that created me. When I feed it aches as the first day I received it.” He didn’t know why he was telling her this. It wasn’t like him to divulge personal details about his life to take-out from The Trinity. Then again, he didn’t usually take his meal home, either. There was just something about her...he couldn’t name it. He just knew he didn’t want her to go away.

She shifted on top of him, brushing his lap. His eyes widened. She was wet. So wet that he could feel it seeping through his own boxer briefs. He took a breath to steady himself, but that only brought him musky waves of her arousal. His hands grabbed at her hips to still her.

“I can smell you,” he moved underneath her, making sure she could feel him. He was painfully hard, straining underneath the two layers of thin fabric keeping him from feeling her, from losing control completely. She gasped, bracing herself against his chest and smiling, blood rushing to her cheeks.

“You could do something about that,” she teased, running her thumbs over his hard nipples. Everything was sensitive; everything was hard, his whole body teeming with energy and life after taking his fill of her. His need for nourishment had been satisfied, leaving him with a different kind of hunger, one he was sure she was feeling too. She fought his hold on her hips and ground down on his lap pointedly.

He flipped them, loving the sound of her squeak at his display of easy strength. Her hair spread out in a halo against his duvet, making her seem more angel than human. He ducked and pressed a kiss to her lips, a quick taste before he stood to rid himself of his underwear. She lifted herself up on her elbows to look at him, finally naked in front of her. Her eyes darkened in the way that only a human’s can, in that moment when they’re most animal.

“Are you coming?” She welcomed him between her legs, feet flat against his mattress and knees spread, her pretty white lace panties practically translucent against her soaking slit. He reached behind her to the bedside table and dug a condom out of the drawer.

“Not yet, but you will be soon,” he rolled it down his length. Her eyes rolled and she fell back against the bed, too turned on to be annoyed at his bad joke. He braced himself above her, leaning down to nuzzle the mark he’d left earlier, licking at the blood still clinging to her chest. It was cold, devoid of life but still rich with her taste. She mewled, lost somewhere between pleasure and pain. He pressed a final kiss to his bite, the tang of her blood still clinging to his lips.

“Shawn,” she clawed at his back, wrapping her legs around his waist and lifting her lips to his ear, “please.”

He growled, pushing inside to the hilt in one stroke. They both cried out, his head falling forward to mouth at her chest. She threaded her fingers into his hair to hold him, breathing through the stretch of him inside of her. With her arousal, the floral, fertile jasmine scent of her overwhelmed him. It rippled off of her, filling his bedroom. He slowly moved in and out, a lazy rhythm to prolong the closeness. He could have moved like that for hours, giving her just enough pleasure to keep her on edge but never sending her over. But she’d given him what he’d wanted, given him part of herself, shared what makes her alive to give him a fleeting glimpse of what that felt like again.

“Harder, baby,” she moaned. He bristled at the pet name, fucking her into the mattress harder, his hips colliding with hers over and over. They both panted profanities, her back arching and pushing her breasts into his chest. He took one of her nipples between his lips, flicking the hard bud with his tongue. The salty sweetness of her skin filled his mouth. She started to tremble beneath him, her arms clinging to his straining biceps.

“Shawn,” she looked him in the eye, her words punctuated by his relentless thrusting, “fuck...I want….you…to bite me again.”

He didn’t argue.

His fangs found a home just beneath her breast, her sweet blood, fragrant with her passion, erupted into his mouth. She screamed her release, pushing her body as far into him as she could, until he fell over the edge with her. He drank from her until they were both more blood than bone, until her limbs went limp and he couldn’t hold her up anymore. Images flickered in his memory, the same ones from before, the ones that usually made him gasp in the pain of dead memories, but he was so fully sated that they couldn’t touch him. He collapsed beside her, eyes closed and gasping for breath.

Her fingers traced his wet lips and slipped inside his mouth. They were covered in her blood. He turned to look at her as he sucked them clean and marveled at her hooded eyes, dark with the erotic sight before her. He released her fingers with a pop, swirling his tongue around the tips and smiling at the moan he elicited.

“That was…” she started.

“Incredible,” they both laughed.

Shawn crawled off the bed with unsteady legs. It was a drunk sort of walk, he hadn’t had human blood straight from the source in so long, hadn’t been fucked back to life in even longer. The intoxication was acute, the world a little more saturated and loud. He flipped the light on in his bathroom to grab a towel and discard the condom. Catching his reflection, he stopped quick. He’d almost forgotten what it looked like when he fed. His flushed complexion returned, rosy cheeks and chest colored with fresh blood under his skin. His chest moved, his heart pumping for the first time in six months. He’d gone so long without feeding this time. Too long.

He dabbed the towel at her shoulder and her breast, thankful for the enzymes in his mouth that quickened the healing. The blood around the bites had already coagulated, leaving a bit of a mess behind, but at least she had stopped bleeding. When all the excess blood was gone, she was left with four neat wounds, each smaller than the head of a pin.

“There. You might be sore for a couple of days but they should heal quickly,” Shawn instructed. She nodded, looking a little miffed about what to do next. It was the body’s natural instinct to fight or flee under the eyes of a predator, but he could tell she wanted to do neither.

“Do you…” he hesitated, he’d never done this before but he wasn’t ready to let her go yet, “do you want to sleep here? With me?”

She answered his question by burying herself in his sheets, all still pristine white underneath his red duvet. Not one drop of blood had spilled onto his bed. He crawled in after her, opening his arm to let her curl into his side.

“You really are warm now,” she wondered aloud, playing with his fingertips in between her own.

“All because of you,” he kissed the top of her head, an intimate gesture, but no more intimate than claiming her blood for his own, “now sleep.”

So they slept. He slept hard, his body surrendering to real rest for the first time in months. The dreams that usually plagued him after feeding were absent. His old life, his human life, didn’t come back to haunt him. His wife, his child, the wars he’d waged for men with too much power and no care for human life, all stayed dead. She chased it all away with her warmth and her jasmine scent and her citrus blood.

He didn’t know if it was hours or days later when he woke up to an empty house, her scent still desperately clinging to his sheets. All he knew was that she was gone and all he had was her name.

Lost in thought, in the memory of her, he found himself in front of The Trinity. He’d come here a couple of times, looking, hoping to see her again, but he’d given up. It wasn’t usual for him to ever revisit a human twice. In fact, he could only name a handful of women he’d had more than once. But she wasn’t coming back. He’d thought back on that night so many times and thought of all the things he could have done wrong, but in truth, he was a vampire and sometimes that was enough. He was too old, too mature to let a human consume him like this.

Vlad waved him in and he sat in his usual place at the bar nursing his usual whiskey sour. John chattered about some event he was hosting. Some kind of political thing, Alex Hamilton was expected to show. Shawn really hated him. Still a fucking hot head like he was in life. It had only gotten worse since the musical. If only people knew how many times the real A. Ham had been in the audience.

It was near closing time when John decided to shut up about vampire politics and let Shawn sulk in peace and quiet. He’d been so careful the last decade to temper his thirst. He went longer and longer and longer between feedings, meticulous about who he fed on and where. No personal life, no invitations, no sex.

She’d broken all his rules and then she’d just left him. It was just one night. One night that he’d never forget. He sighed, slumping over his third whiskey sour and hoping that tomorrow he’d be less pitiful. He needed to call it a night. Nodding at John, he laid down some cash and slid off his barstool.

Fingers grazed his change mark. He jumped near out of his skin, whipping around only to be knocked over by the familiar floral and citrus that he’d been looking for.

It was her.

“Shawn?”

*****

I mean like....I have to continue this, right?

(btw, his brownstone townhouse is a real place on the market for a cool $20 million rn) 

permanent taglist: @justanotherfangurl272  @siennarossi @trustfundshawn @alone-in-madness @rodneywaber @harryandmolly @thatindiannerdygirl @the-claire-bitch-project @mendesromano @fromthicctosticc @esoltis280  @softmendesss @sinplisticshawn @nedthegay @september-lace @itrocksmysocks @disaster-rose @mendesoft @luvluvxx @i-play-video-games @ihearthemcallingforyou @hi-my-name-is-sid @gentleshawn @kitykatnumber @enchantingbrowneyedgirl @ijustreallylikeshawnokay

[thecarnivorouskitten]

A Totally Out-of-Style Work that Probably Shouldn’t be my First Post

               It was a rainy day, a cold and blustery morning in late November. London Birminghem was burrowing through a dresser drawer for her wool socks.

               It was a frustrating situation, as she had been searching for nearly ten minutes. She was running late by her self-appointed schedule. It was 10:08 a.m.; her schedule said she was supposed to be at the Thomas J. Matthews Library in seven minutes, and it took her fifteen minutes by bus to get there.

Over half the contents of London’s sock drawer had been thrown about her room in her search, and she was beginning to wonder if warm feet were truly worth straying from her flawless schedule. She had spent a long time ordering her calendar, and hated to see her hard work wasted. She muttered a curse under her breath, snatching a pair of plain socks and stumbling to her bed to yank them onto her feet.

She almost didn’t bother to lock the door behind her as she swept outside, hunching her shoulders inside her black coat to ward off the chill of the frigid rain. The 10:15 bus would be arriving at the bus stop any minute. London leaned into a jog, dark hair whipping around her face. She could not miss the bus.

She did not. Whatever higher power there was in the world seemed to have some pity for her. She wiped her hair out of her hazel eyes and grabbed onto a handle on the ceiling.

The Thomas J. Matthews Library was not an impressive building, contrary to its name. It was a plain, one-story building, brown brick with a minimum number of windows. London checked the time. 10:33. She frowned, licked rainwater off of her lips, and hurried into the library.

Warm air smelling of books and cleaner met her, and as London’s shoes squeaked on the floor, the librarian at the front desk fluttered his fingers in a wave.

Mordecai Solace seemed to be the only librarian who worked there. He was in his fifties or sixties, London couldn’t be sure and didn’t ask, and had white hairs patching his short black beard. His eyes were the color of strong espresso, a shade darker than his skin, and he had crow’s feet wrinkling the corners.

“I was wondering if you would make it today,” He greeted her cheerfully. “Was it the rain that got you running late?”

London nodded offhandedly, not about to admit she had spent ten minutes searching for a pair of lost socks, and decided to change the subject. “How’ve you been, Mr. Solace? Any gruesome book returns?”

“No, no.” Mordecai shook his head, smile fading. “You’ve been the only visitor for two weeks. I did, however, get a donation of several books that I have been told are in good condition that you might be interested in.”

London grinned. “Let’s take a look, why don’t we?”

Bracing his hand on the front desk’s surface, Mordecai got to his feet, beckoning London over. She flung her coat onto the rack and paced behind the counter, dropping her bag.

Mr. Solace drew out a cardboard box from the shelf beneath the counter, setting it down with a heavy thump. His eyes sparkled, and he patted the folded flaps on top. “I haven’t looked through these yet,” He muttered, “But they came from a rather eccentric donator, so I don’t know what we’ll find.”

“C’mon then.” London reached out and tugged the box open.

There were only a few, maybe six, but they all looked old. Most were bound in fabric, although London could see two bound in leather. Gingerly, she took a leather-bound book and pulled it out from under another. Rubbing a coat of dust from the surface, she ran her fingertips over the title. Tales of thee Unseene, Unhearde, and Unspeakable.

“This looks intriguing,” London murmured, moving a finger to crack the cover when Mordecai snatched it from her grasp. She stared at the man, bewildered to find his hands trembling.

His eyes, full of dread, roved along the cover, fingers brushing against the stiff leather, jaw quivering. London tentatively stretched out a hand, resting it on his shoulder. Mordecai jumped, seemed to remember she was there, and set the book down hard on the desk. “This book isn’t suited to our library. I’ll do away with it when you leave.”

London shook her head in confusion. “I could just take it. I’d hate for a book to go to wa-”

“No,” Mordecai hissed, and London’s eyes widened in shock at the hoarseness of his voice. “No one may read this book. Do not read this book, do you understand?”

No, London did not understand. But she had grown close to older man in her years going to the Thomas J. Matthews Library, and would respect his wishes. She nodded quickly. “I won’t, Mr. Solace. I promise you.”

Mordecai nodded, slowly, seemingly lost in his thoughts again, fingers fluttering against nothing. From the other end of library, the grandfather clock he had salvaged from the side of the road chimed the turn of the hour, echoing lowly through the rows of books like shadows. London checked the time on her phone in surprise. Surely, she couldn’t have been there for half an hour already? Yet she had, and therefore she needed to go.

“I’ve got to go, Mr. Solace. I’m almost late for lunch.” London picked up her bag from the floor and threw it over her shoulder, looking back at Mordecai for his reaction, but still he stared into nothing, expressionless. She frowned, but the thought of her schedule drew her toward the door and the weather outside.

It was a long day, out and about in the city, and at 9:30, London was exhausted and glad to get home. She dropped her bag off in her room and took a hot shower, microwaving a can of chicken soup for her dinner before going straight to her room.

She was so tired she tripped over her discarded bag. She hopped in pain for a minute, hissing, when she realized she had not known what there was in the bag that was hard enough to stub her toe on. She bent, reached into the bag, and pulled on the hard object.

It was the book. The book. How had it ended up in her bag? Hadn’t Mr. Solace set it on the desk? But she hadn’t put it there, which meant he would have had to. Which meant… He did want her to read it after all?

It was strange, she thought as she settled into her blankets and opened the book, how the older man had acted that day. But what did it matter now? She would meet him again next week, same time, and everything would be fine…

Before she had even gotten to the right page, London fell asleep. Her breathing grew slow and deep, her body relaxing into the mattress.

Her bedside light was still on when it began to happen.

A tiny sprout, dark green and twining, curled up out of the binding of the book. Then another, and another, and the sprouts that were already there began to lengthen and swell with leaves, creeping along the page and then over the edge of the book. They were hungry, whispering things, snaking up London’s arm to bloom along her face in a dark mask of leaves until not a patch of her skin could be seen. Her hands jolted once, then lay still.

But the vines were not finished. From the center of the open book came the tearing of paper, and a cold, dank must filled the room as a dark hole bloomed from the leaf-choked book.

For a moment that seemed to stretch for eternity, the hole yawned, still and dark.

And then two long antennae appeared, followed by impossibly many twitching legs, and the first insect crawled out in a rippling of spidery limbs and wispy trembling of threadlike antennae. Whispering from behind it came a horde of the centipedes, glistening in the lamplight and dripping from the bed like water, crawling along the walls and searching for a way out into the world. From the ever-expanding hole of the book came a guttural call, low and wet.

A skeletal, broken hand gripped the edge of the hole, and out peered the skull of a wolf, gleaming with an unidentifiable slime.  The jawbone clacked, the empty sockets hollow as it dragged itself free from its prison of pages before reaching back inside, helping forth another grisly creature from the dark, and more came until the room was crowded with the clicking of bones and murmurs of insect legs. One found the window, and the shattering of glass splintered the night. Skulls grinned at the opening, and centipedes found the opening, swarming out with the creatures.

When a howl pierced the air of Mordecai’s home, he shuddered, closing his eyes. He should have never have written the book. He would never write again; he would end his curse, not bring more evil to the world.

The ghouls would be arriving soon, to come to their master. What would he tell them? If he said anything that would not please them, they would turn.

There was a scrape at the door. A wolfish skull leered in his window, and a pale, bony hand tapped the glass.

Mordecai stared into the sockets where its eyes should have been, regretting everything.

He had warned her about the book. Now it was too late.

[drkirthipaladugu]

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[orthopaedicsgr]

Limb lengthening in London | athensbjr.com

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[newsnerd-ooc]

London. My home.

Home to 8.8 million UK residents, 8000 buses, 402 kilometers of tubes.....

And I just happen to be the one resident to run into a subway car full of demons.

I usually try to keep to myself. You know? I got bills to pay. Netflix to watch. Reports to file. Lack of love life to fulfill. The usual. This is why I kept my headphones plugged in.

But as soon as I entered this tube, I found my sense of suspicion arising. But when you’re surrounded by a crowd, you’re usually fine from assault. only 5% of London’s population is in any way supernatural. So I let out a sigh and leaned my head back, enjoying the moment of quiet. 

Then I felt two fingers prod my shoulder. “Rommel.” I heard through a muffled BTS track. “Rommel.”

 He had greasy hair, slightly torn clothing, but his eyes were red. His touch was warmer than most human beings, which meant that he either had a really bad fever or was possessed. In this case? I’d go with the latter.

“Yeah? Can I help you?”

The man gestured with his head toward the entrance, right as the train seems to stop. I considered making him talk to me here, but I find that discussing business of the demonic orientation to be less-than-wise in a crowded subway.

As the subway sped down the tube, I found myself in a darker tunnel that was devoid of observers. Or wait. No. There were about five of them there, each dressed in the standard dark red suit that defined the garb of the Underlord, one of the few monstrous crime bosses in London.

I note each one’s position before crossing my arms and keeping my eyes fixated on the first man. “...So. What’s all this about?”

“The Underlord wants to make himself clear. You stay out of his business or else your world will burn.”

I lift a brow at that. “The Underlord, eh? Doesn’t he have better things to do than harass some ol’ reporter?”

The man simply stared for a long moment before growling out a low “will you comply?”

I shrug, clearly ambivalent about the matter. “You know. Maybe. Maybe not. Never was good at abiding personal requests like that. Not when he’s got hands and toes in everything from soul trafficking to illegal magic enhancers.”

That does not please him or his encircling group of friends, whose forms begin shifting. Lengthening limbs, darkening eyes and heated breath. All typical symptoms of the demonic soul seeping into our plane.

“And the Underlord should know that brute force rarely works on me.”

The man simply tightens his fist, causing his hands to light aflame before swinging an uppercut at me. The strike definitely surprised me, surprising me and knocking the wind out of my chest. Demons are fast buggers. 

“Gods. You chiefs are rude.” I sputter out as I attempt to recover from the surprisingly strong stunning strike. “Didn’t anybody teach you all fecking manners in hell? Oh right. That’s why you got kicked. Couldn’t maintain your Ps and Qs.”

A word of recommendation to anyone dealing with demons. Talking about the fall is a great way to piss them off. 

“And I mean...I know the Underlord’s all about his aesthetic, but could you stand out any more? You look like a Silk Fetishist dressed you.” a pause. “Maybe he did. Right tosser, he was. I bet you didn’t even tip him....”

I continued to move, creating space between them while I lobbed insult after insult at them.  You could see the flesh almost boiling as their anger and annoyance with me grew.  But it gave me time to subtlely pull out a tiny vial of pepper spray from my back pocket and palm it. I then approached the first demon, his eyes full of dark fire. “So then. What’re ya gonna do? Incinerate me?”

I’m 90% sure that’s what he wanted to do. He quickly inhaled, the heat growing in his chest. Not that he’d get to exhale. I immediately spritzed it on his face, causing him to howl in pain as his flesh sizzled from the spritz on his face. 

Pepper spray is good. Holy water-infused pepper spray is better.

I followed that up with a quick kick to his crotch,  his human body reeling in pain and embarrassment from such a simple move. 

The next few minutes were a swing of limbs, fire, and blades as his demonic compatriots attempted to swarm me. These demons were new, which was to my advantage as I broke an arm here or knocked them out.

Demons are some of the most powerful beings on this plane. Between enhanced speed and fiery powers, most humans cannot hold their own without some kind of magical enhancement. That said, they cannot manifest physically  without A) inhabiting a human or B) molding a body out of a blood sacrifice.

If they do A, it usually takes a while to acclimate to a new body. Kinda like how an amputee takes time to learn how to use a prosthetic. Except the prosthetic is their entire body.

=======

I left them all in the empty subway, climbing out of an abandoned exit. I doubt that the Underlord was done with me. But he was gonna need to send better thugs next time.

I could still feel the bruises from that encounter, the adrenaline wearing off as I sat at a nearby busstop. I could feel a sharp pain in my chest. Yup. Pretty sure they busted something. I was gonna enjoy explaining this one to the nurse.

“..Fuck...I hate this job.”

[crescentmoon223]

Two Worlds Collide

I’ve written a Stella/Scully fanfic, and I’m SO excited about it, because I really love these two with all my heart. The whole thing is already drafted, and I’ll be posting chapters as I get them edited. I’ve just uploaded the first two!

Read them now on AO3.

Chapter 1

November 1997

Scully’s wool coat flapped against her legs as she strode across the field toward the small police presence gathered near the tree line. As a force of habit, she bore most of her weight on the balls of her feet to keep her heels from sinking into the soft earth, because she’d be damned if she was going to ask Mulder to slow his lanky stride so she could keep up. He walked beside her, tall and loose-limbed, his expression eager as a puppy but with the intensity of a bloodhound following a scent trail.

Overhead, the London sun had been blotted out by a hazy gray sky. The air was heavy with moisture, cool and damp, clinging to her skin and frizzing her hair. A white tarp had been erected over the crime scene ahead, and officers in white coveralls moved about beneath it, processing the scene. Off to the side, a blonde woman dressed all in black stood talking to two uniformed officers.

Scully and Mulder headed for this trio. He was convinced he was onto something big, and he’d convinced her to come all the way to London—on their own dime and vacation time from the bureau—to prove it. For once, she agreed with him, or she’d never have agreed to this trip, especially since it meant revisiting one of their most ridiculous cases. Well, and then there was the fact that both of them were dying of boredom now that Kersh had taken them off the X Files. If she had to spend another day running background checks…

It was a punishment. And it was working, because she was about to lose her mind, and Mulder had taken to sneaking off on unauthorized field trips—like this one—chasing down his never-ending list of conspiracy theories. She hadn’t been entirely convinced by the exsanguinated cows, but it had been enough to get her on the plane. When the body was discovered this morning, though, she’d felt a rare thrill. They might actually be in the right place at the right time for once. They might actually close this case.

As they neared the group of officers ahead, Scully straightened her spine and lifted her chin, steeling herself for what was to come. Mulder’s pace quickened, and she lengthened her stride to keep up.

The blonde turned, tossing her hair over her shoulder as she watched them approach. Her eyes locked on Scully’s, intense and startlingly direct. Scully’s heel caught in a tuft of grass, and she gripped Mulder’s arm to keep herself from falling.

His hand rested momentarily against the small of her back, steadying her, as he turned toward the blonde. He seemed to have drawn the same conclusion Scully had—this woman was clearly in charge. Authority radiated off her like a force field, adding to her already striking appearance. She was petite, probably not any taller than Scully, with blonde hair that hung halfway down her back in loose waves and piercing blue eyes.

“You’re the FBI agent I spoke with over the phone?” She directed this at Mulder, her voice like chipped ice, sharp, cold, British.

“Special Agent Fox Mulder.” He extended his hand.

“Detective Sergeant Stella Gibson.” She gave his hand a quick shake before turning her gaze on Scully.

“Special Agent Dana Scully.” She took Detective Gibson’s hand and shook, trying not to stare too hard, but there was something so magnetic, so powerful about her presence, Scully couldn’t look away.

The detective stared right back for a long moment. She was younger than Scully had initially thought, maybe even a few years younger than Scully herself. “I confess I’m still not sure why the FBI is interested in this case. Obviously, you have no jurisdiction here.”

“We’re not here in an official capacity,” Mulder told her as his eyes scanned the crime scene. Yellow tape marked a shallow grave the Metropolitan police had already uncovered and emptied. “But we think we may be familiar with your killer from a prior case of our own.”

Her eyebrows rose. “You think my killer is American?”

“Yeah, actually, we do.” Mulder had that look again—like an excited puppy—as he prepared to launch into a tale about vampires and pizza delivery boys.

Scully braced herself, determined not to roll her eyes at the absurdity of it all. Because, as crazy as it sounded, it had—at least in some capacity—actually happened. Whether or not the killer had been a flying teenage vampire or just a crazy, coldblooded killer, he had been a killer, and he had escaped, unpunished.

“About a year ago, Scully and I were called to investigate a case where the victims were found completely drained of blood, with two puncture marks on their neck, like fangs.” He emphasized that last part with a dramatic flair, and Scully couldn’t help it. She rolled her eyes.

Mulder gave her an impatient look. “The local authorities had initially overlooked the fact that each victim’s shoe laces had been untied, like the body you just uncovered.”

“Go on,” the detective said, her interest clearly piqued, and Scully could picture what would happen next so clearly. Mulder would adopt that flirtatious tone that made women swoon, weaving a tale of danger and intrigue, while Detective Gibson drew closer, pressing him for details, maybe resting a hand on his arm.

And it really shouldn’t bother Scully, because it happened all the time, and she knew Mulder never actually slept with these women. He was as clueless as he was charming. In fact, Scully wasn’t actually sure he’d had sex in the six years she’d known him. So, she wasn’t sure whether the hot surge of jealousy she felt swelling in her chest now was over the thought of Mulder flirting with Detective Gibson, or of Detective Gibson returning his affection.

Because Scully still found herself oddly captivated by the detective herself.

“It was Scully who noticed all the victims’ stomach contents consisted of pizza,” Mulder was saying. “And she realized the pizza delivery boy was our killer.”

“The pizza delivery boy?” Detective Gibson’s gaze was still cool, assessing. “But you didn’t have enough evidence to make an arrest?”

“Well, ah…” His gaze darted to Scully.

She gave her head a slight shake. Good luck explaining the rest of it without sounding completely insane. But, luckily or unluckily for her, Mulder had never much cared what people thought of him.

“The thing is, he’s a vampire.” He leaned forward with a conspiratorial smile aimed at Detective Gibson.

She blinked, hard, jaw jutting irritably as if she didn’t have the patience for any of this. “I don’t understand.”

“It was what drew us to the case in the first place,” Mulder said. “All the classic signs of vampirism were there, right down to the untied shoes. Did you know that most vampires are obsessive compulsive?”

The detective stared at him as if he’d just told her that…well, that vampires were real. Scully might have found it amusing if her own reputation weren’t at stake alongside Mulder’s.

“It was never actually proven that he was a vampire,” she interjected, trying as ever to be the voice of reason. “In fact, he was using a drug called chloral hydrate to incapacitate the victims before he drained them of blood, which would suggest he was quite human.”

“Then explain what happened in your hotel room that night,” Mulder said, smug.

She heaved a resigned sigh. “I was at the medical examiner’s office, conducting an autopsy on our second victim, when I discovered that the chloral hydrate was in the pizza they’d both eaten shortly before they were murdered.”

“At the same time, I was in Scully’s hotel room, eating the pizza she’d ordered…”

She glared at him, still annoyed that he’d eaten her dinner, even if it did almost get him killed. “Long story short, the pizza delivery boy, a local teenager named Ronnie Strickland, had drugged my pizza, which Mulder ate. I got there just in time to interrupt him before he could kill Mulder too.”

“I had been able to delay him for a few minutes by throwing sunflower seeds at him,” Mulder explained with another smile, turning the full force of his boyish charm on Detective Gibson.

She folded her arms over her chest, looking decidedly unamused, her gaze flicking to Scully’s. And suddenly, Scully would rather be swallowed up by the damp London soil beneath her heels than tell this woman the rest of the story. But Mulder was already explaining how he’d plunged a wooden stake through Ronnie Strickland’s heart.

“Bearing in mind that Agent Mulder was under the effects of chloral hydrate at the time, which may have affected his judgment,” Scully added. “The important thing is that Ronnie Strickland killed at least two people in Chaney, Texas, last year, and now we believe he’s killing here in London.”

“Thank you for bringing this to my attention,” Detective Gibson said, her tone clipped with impatience. “But I’ll take it from here.”

“Actually…” Scully stepped forward, and the detective fixed her again with that intense stare. “I’m a medical doctor. I autopsied the victims in Texas. Maybe you could just let me take a look at this body to check for similarities?”

For a moment, she was sure the steely-eyed detective was going to send her on her way, and then she’d be forced to follow Mulder wherever he decided to poke next, since she’d driven here with him, but then Detective Gibson gave a brisk nod.

“I suppose that couldn’t hurt.”

“Thank you,” Scully told her earnestly. “I brought the bite impressions from our cases with me from DC. Hopefully, we can get a match.”

“Great. You go look at the body, Scully. I’m going to check something out.” Mulder strode off in the direction they’d come from, his mind already miles away, focused on…wherever he was headed. If it wasn’t so perfectly, typically Mulder, she might actually scream in frustration.

Instead, she gave Detective Gibson a tight smile. Hopefully she didn’t mind driving Scully to the morgue.

***

Stella rested her hip against the doorframe, watching Agent Scully as she examined the body. She’d changed into blue scrubs, red hair gleaming beneath the harsh overhead lights in a most distracting way. She and Stella had observed the official autopsy, which confirmed that the victim—one Joe Morris—had indeed eaten pizza shortly before his death, and now Scully was getting the chance to make her own observations under Stella’s supervision.

She was newly promoted to Detective Sergeant, which at her age and especially as a woman, meant she had a hell of a lot of pressure to succeed on her shoulders. She absolutely could not afford to fuck up, not on this case and especially not with the questionable interference of Agents Mulder and Scully. Her gaze dropped to Scully’s gloved hands.

“Have you ever heard of a condition called Renfield’s syndrome?” she asked, tossing a glance over her shoulder at Stella.

“No.”

“Sufferers have an obsession with drinking blood.” Scully bent her head to examine the bite wound more closely. “Some of them even believe themselves to be real life vampires.”

“So, you don’t think your killer was actually a vampire, then?”

Scully’s brows drew together, causing faint wrinkles to appear above her nose that only added to the professional yet sexy vibe she had going. “As a scientist, I would have to say no.”

“And as an agent?”

Scully gave her a sharp look. “There is the small matter of the way he walked out of the morgue once the medical examiner removed the wooden stake from his chest cavity.”

“The wooden stake your partner drove into his heart.”

Scully straightened, tongue darting out to wet her lips, obviously choosing her next words carefully. In the end, all she said was, “Yes.”

“Agent Scully—”

“Dana,” she interrupted, her expression softening as she met Stella’s gaze for a moment before returning to the body on the table in front of her. “I know it sounds crazy. I can’t explain it. But whether or not either of us believes Ronnie Strickland is a vampire, the fact remains that I think he’s here in London. See these puncture wounds?”

Stella pushed off from the doorframe and stepped closer, close enough that the faintly fruity smell of Scully’s shampoo reached her nose through the other, less pleasant scents of the morgue. “I see them.”

“He wears prosthetic fangs over his teeth.” She gestured to the two fang marks that punctured the victim’s neck. “I expect that once the lab comparison comes back, you’ll find that these marks match our victims in Texas.”

“Your bodies weren’t buried.” Stella met Scully’s eyes, intrigued by what she saw there, intelligence and determination sparkling in their blue depths.

“No. He left them at the scene in Texas, but he’s had almost a year to learn from that experience. Who knows how many people he’s killed and buried since then?”

“He’s become more sophisticated,” Stella said. “Assuming it’s the same man.”

“The puncture wounds, exsanguinated bodies, pizza in the stomach, chloral hydrate in his bloodstream, and the untied shoelaces are all a match for our case in Texas.”

“A lot of similarities,” Stella admitted. She’d been ready to write Mulder and Scully off as slightly crazy and way out of their jurisdiction when she’d first met them, but now she was willing to admit there was a strong chance their cases were linked.

“I expect Mulder’s out canvassing local pizza delivery places,” Scully said.

“He didn’t tell you where he was going?” Stella had never worked with a partner. The Metropolitan police assigned officers at random to each case, but her impression was that her counterparts in America worked quite closely with their partners.

But Scully was shaking her head, her expression a combination of frustration and amusement. “His feet sometimes work faster than his mouth.”

“I see.” Stella watched as Scully stepped back from the table, removing her gloves.

“I had a photo and profile of Ronnie Strickland sent to your office. You should show it around, see if he’s still delivering pizzas for a living.”

“I’ll do that,” Stella said. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Scully’s smile was brief but sincere.

“So, you believe he suffers from Renfield’s syndrome, then?” she asked, not sure why she was pushing the subject, but it fascinated her to see a woman of medicine, of science, otherwise so logical and rational, consider the possibility that their killer might be a mythical creature.

Scully drew a deep breath, pushing it out slowly, her jaw flexing as if she’d grown unfortunately accustomed to answering questions like these. “There were anomalies in his blood that I can’t explain, not to mention his apparent resurrection from the dead. I would have to examine him myself to be certain, Detective Gibson.”

“Stella,” she corrected.

“Stella.” Scully looked her dead in the eye, and Stella felt it in the pit of her stomach, a shivery heat that rose up to lodge in her throat. Nothing turned her on in a woman more than competence, intelligence, and right now, Dana Scully had her halfway convinced vampires were real.

“It’s possible that there’s a science to Ronnie Strickland’s condition that I’m not aware of,” Scully said. “It’s also possible he’s just another self-deluded psychopath.”

Stella led the way out of the morgue, waiting in the hallway as Scully changed back into her clothes. She emerged from the bathroom wearing the black trousers, white button-down shirt, and black blazer she’d had on earlier, running her fingers through her slightly ruffled hair.

Stella had driven her here from the crime scene and was prepared to offer her a ride back to her hotel as well, assuming the elusive Agent Mulder didn’t reappear. Her gaze caught on Scully’s slender fingers as she toyed with a button on her shirt. “Have you eaten yet, Dana?”

“What?” Scully darted a nervous glance in her direction.

“Would you like to get something to eat before I drive you back to your hotel?” she clarified.

Scully hesitated long enough that Stella started to consider alternate options to burn off the restless energy buzzing inside her, like going to one of her favorite bars to find a random man for the evening, or a swim, or even returning to the office to update her case file with the new information Scully had provided.

But she smiled as she buttoned her blazer. “I’d like that.”

“Perfect.” Stella couldn’t help the way her gaze drifted to the delicate curve of Scully’s collarbone beneath her Catholic cross pendant, the swell of her breasts visible beneath the open top button of her blouse. The way Scully’s cheeks darkened when she caught Stella looking. The slight toss of her head as she dared her to keep looking.

On second thought, Stella wasn’t in the mood for a man tonight, after all.

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[brightonportfolio2021]

“Select two artists to compare and contrast. Analyse their work; technique, materials, and ideas”: Rebecca Horn and Oskar Schlemmer.

The two artists I have chosen to explore are Rebecca Horn (1944-present) and Oskar Schlemmer (1888-1943), investigating their differing approaches to the human form. Both artists created work that extends and modifies the body, creating costumes, sculptures and prostheses and seeking both to impede and enhance movement.

Rebecca Horn’s work is frequently discussed in relation to her time spent in isolation in a sanatorium for a 12 month period, after developing lung poisoning from working unprotected with glass fibres and polyesters. Confined to her bed she began creating drawings, sewing, and designing what would eventually become her series of body sculptures. The process of creating these body extensions was heavily influenced by this period of sickness and the death of her parents in her twenties causing her to become “totally isolated”. (Winterson, 2005).

‘Unicorn’, Rebecca Horn, 1970-2. Wood, fabric and metal.

“Looking back at my first pieces, you always see a kind of cocoon.” (Winterson, 2005).  This quote speaks to how the sculptures have a concealed and confining appearance. This is evident in ‘Unicorn’, a wearable sculpture constructed from wood, metal and fabric. Intended to be worn on the naked body, the piece features a series of restrictive vertical and horizontal straps, fixing a long pointed horn to the wearer’s head. This piece was intended to elongate and accentuate the “graceful” walk of the student it was designed for; like prostheses Horn’s sculptures were designed to fit one particular person. (Watling, 2012). The installation and film of ‘Unicorn’,  set in the woods at dawn have an ethereal atmosphere created by the soft light and protruding, alien silhouette. The movement of the wearer is significantly altered. The rigid, constricting, at times medical nature of the bodyworks differs from Horn’s bodylandscapes series which appear more unrestrained. Both artists’ work gives the body non-human qualities whether it is adding wings, horns and claws or likening the human body and its movements to machines. The obstructed movement of the wearer and “restriction of physicality” (Zweite, 2005) echoes Schlemmer’s choreography of the Triadisches Ballett.

‘Finger Gloves,’ Rebecca Horn, 1972. Fabric, wood and metal.

Many works of Rebecca Horn’s that extend areas of the body are deliberately functionless and difficult to manoeuvre. Finger Gloves in particular extends the wearer’s hands with long, sinister, pointed fingers that graze the floor and scratch the walls. A sense of distance is created between the wearer and the viewer giving the impression Horn is reaching out for something and grasping with these awkward structures. Although the structures appear to be heavy and drag the user down, Horn described the Finger Gloves as light and effortless to move: “I control the distance between myself and the object.” (Le Feuvre, 2019). Artworks such as Finger Gloves and the short film Scratching Both Walls At Once allude to the need for interaction and having control over one’s own body.

Distance is clearly seen in the wearable sculptures or ‘bodyworks’ as the odd, elongated structures cause the wearer to appear odd and unapproachable. The theme of isolation consistent across Horn’s work is emphasised by the plain and remote settings in which she films her sculptures in use: an empty field at dawn, a bare apartment.

‘Triadisches Ballett’, Oskar Schlemmer, 1922.

‘Triadisches Ballett’, Oskar Schlemmer, 1922.

Both artists’ works have been described as “mechanised”.

“Life has become so mechanised […] that we are intensely aware of man as machine and the body as mechanism” - Oskar Schlemmer (Smith, 2016).

Both artists’ performances utilise mechanical, repetitive actions that distance the wearer from the natural form and motion of the human body becoming closer to machine. This “mechanised” effect is apparent in Schlemmer’s Triadisches Ballett; the stiffness and precision of the dancers’ movements but also the way one dancer’s movement causes another’s gives the impression of clockwork. The dancers frequently move in ways unnatural to the human body and the stiffness and weight of the costumes is apparent.

Achieving the desired “mathematics in motion” effect for the ballet proved difficult as several skilled dancers turned down the performance, objecting that it restricted their preferred way of dancing. While Schlemmer wanted the dancer to appear as a robotic mechanism, dancers claimed the costumes paralysed them. Schlemmer stated that “Dancers of [their] kind demand complete control of their bodies”.  (Kant, 2015).

Schlemmer’s costumes for the Triadisches Ballett were created by reducing the dancers’ bodies into a series of lines, arcs, and circles, analogous to the human body, re-imagined into geometric costumes. Instead of a skirt a flat disc would be used. Star shapes originated from a splayed hand, a head became just a sphere, and a neck a cylinder. The stylised, artificial movements this resulted in were considered “aesthetically superior” by Schlemmer to natural human movement. The set design is also heavily centred around line and geometry; the dancers move mechanically around grids and rotate around spirals. (Doyle, 2017).

The focus is on the costume and the dancers are “anonymised” (Sutil, 2014) using masks in order not to detract from the movements making them appear robotic, some costumes obscuring a human silhouette completely.

Both Horn and Schlemmer investigate the natural limitations of the human body and how they can be altered or overcome by extending limbs and other body parts; Finger Gloves shares similarities with Oskar Schlemmer’s ballet Slat Dance where physical education equipment was used to lengthen the dancers’ limbs.

‘Slat Dance’, Oskar Schlemmer, 1927.

In ‘Slat Dance’ the costume is designed to attach poles to the body of the dancer in order to limit their movement. The dancer becomes an abstract figure; the way they interact with the space around them is transformed.

Both artists created work that physically extended and obscured the body; whether by abstracting the body as a series of geometric forms or extending the silhouette with different alien formations.

BIBLIOGRAPHY  

Brown, K, 2019, The Bauhuas Did Ballet? See the Surreal Costumes From the German Design School’s Little-Known Performance, Artnet, <https://news.artnet.com/exhibitions/triadic-ballet-bauhaus-1444630#:~:text=Back%20in%20the%201920s%2C%20Schlemmer,on%20stage%2C%E2%80%9D%20he%20wrote> accessed 30/01/2021

Doyle, R.B., 2017, Definitive proof nobody did costume parties like the Bauhaus, Curbed

<https://archive.curbed.com/2017/10/25/16547486/bauhaus-design-style-school-costumes-parties>  accessed 30/01/2021

Heskett, J, 1995, ‘Design in Inter-War Germany’, in Kaplan, W (eds), Designing Modernity: The Arts of Reform and Persuasion 1885-1945, Thames & Hudson, New York.

Kant, M, 2015, ‘Oskar Schlemmer’s “Triadic Ballet” (Paris, 1932) and Dance Discourse in Germany. Three Letters with Annotation and a Commentary’, Dance Research: The Journal of the Society for Dance Research, vol. 33, no. 1, pp. 16–30 <https://www.jstor.org/stable/26357833> accessed 01/02/2021

Le Feuvre, L, 2019, Extending Bodies, Tate, <https://www.tate.org.uk/tate-etc/issue-36-spring-2016/extending-bodies>  accessed 01/02/2021

Molnár, F, 1925, Life at the Bauhaus [online]  accessed 30/01/2021

Rebecca Horn, 2009, Museum of Contemporary Art Tokyo MOT, <https://www.mot-art-museum.jp/en/exhibitions/107/> accessed 03/02/2021

Smith, L, 2016, ‘The Body Extended’ & ‘Streams of Warm Impermanence’, Frieze, <https://www.frieze.com/article/body-extended-streams-warm-impermanence> accessed 01/02/2021

Sutil, N, 2014, ‘Mathematics in Motion: A Comparative Analysis of the Stage Works of Schlemmer and Kandinsky at the Bauhaus’, Dance Research: The Journal of the Society for Dance Research, vol. 32, no. 1, pp. 23–42 <www.jstor.org/stable/43281345> accessed 01/02/2021

Watling, L, 2012, Rebecca Horn Unicorn 1970-2, Tate, <https://www.tate.org.uk/art/artworks/horn-unicorn-t07842>  accessed 01/02/2021

Watling, L, 2012, Rebecca Horn Finger Gloves 1972, Tate <https://www.tate.org.uk/art/artworks/horn-finger-gloves-t07845>  accessed 01/02/2021

Whitford, F, 1984, Bauhaus, Thames & Hudson, London.

Winterson, J, 2005, The bionic woman, The Guardian, <https://www.theguardian.com/artanddesign/2005/may/23/art> accessed 01/02/2021

Youtube, 2019, Bauhaus 100, , BBC Four

<https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2a45UBCIbJc>  accessed 30/01/2021

Youtube, 2014, Triadisches Ballet | Triadic Ballet by Oskar Schlemmer

<https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rlIiT80dqHE>  accessed 30/01/2021

Youtube, 2019, Rebecca Horn, Performances 2, 1973 Film cinématographique, 16 mm, couleur, muet, numérisé, env, <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ekmovwo0e2A> accessed 01/02/2021

Zweite, R, 2005, ‘Rebecca Horn’s Bodylandscapes, Ten observations about the race of feelings and drawing in post -mechanical times’, in Rebecca Horn, Bodylandscapes, drawings, sculptures, installations 1964-2005, Exhibition catalogue, Hayward Gallery 26 May - 11 September 2005, Hatje Cantz Publishers, London.